. 


PETRARCH. 


See  page  ix. 


Petrarch 

The  First  Modern  Scholar 
and   Man  of  Letters 


A  Selection  from  his  Correspondence  with 
Boccaccio  and  other  Friends,  Designed  to  Il- 
lustrate the  Beginnings  of  the  Renaissance. 
Translated  from  the  Original  Latin,  together 
with  Historical  Introductions  and  Notes 


BY 
JAMES   HARVEY  ROBINSON 

Professor  of  History  in  Columbia  University 
WITH   THE   COLLABORATION   OF 

HENRY   WINCHESTER   ROLFE 

Sometime  P*ofrssor  of  Latin  in  Swarthmore 
Ccll.gr 

rHlRD  IMPRKWON 


NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 

G.   P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Gbe  fmfcfcerbocfcet  press 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1898 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


TEbe  ftnfcfcerbocfeer  presf,  Hew 


TO 

G.  R.  R. 

AND 

B.  C.  R. 


225854 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

THE  purpose  of  this  volume  is  essentially 
historical.  It  is  not  a  piece  of  literary 
criticism ;  it  is  only  incidentally  a  biography. 
It  has  been  prepared  with  the  single  but 
lively  hope  of  making  a  little  clearer  the  devel- 
opment of  modern  culture.  It  views  Petrarch 
not  as  a  poet,  nor  even,  primarily,  as  a  many- 
sided  man  of  genius,  but  as  the  mirror  of  his 
age — a  mirror  in  which  are  reflected  all  the 
momentous  contrasts  between  waning  Medi- 
aevalism  and  the  dawning  Renaissance. 

Petrarch  knew  almost  everyone  worth  know- 
ing in  those  days ;  consequently  few  historical 
sources  can  rival  his  letters  in  value  and  inter- 
est ;  their  character  and  significance  are  dis- 
cussed at  length  in  the  introduction  which 
follows. 

We  have  ourselves  come  to  love  the  eager, 
independent,  clear-sighted,  sensitive  soul 
through  whose  eyes  we  have  followed  the  initial 
spiritual  struggle  of  modern  times ;  we  would 
that  others  might  learn  to  love  him  too. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  volume  the  edit- 
ors have  naturally  availed  themselves  of  the 


vi  Prefatory  Note 

excellent  edition  of  Petrarch's  Epistola  de 
Rebus  Familiar ibus  et  Varicz,  by  Giuseppe 
Fracassetti,  3  vols.,  8°,  Florence,  1859-63.  For 
the  Epistolce  de  Rebus  Senilibus,  and  the  remain- 
ing Latin  works,  they  have  necessarily  relied 
upon  the  lamentably  incorrect  edition  of  the 
Opera  printed  at  Basle  in  1581,  for  in  spite  of 
its  imperfections  it  is  the  most  complete  col- 
lection of  Petrarch's  writings  that  we  possess. 
The  references  in  the  foot-notes  are,  therefore, 
to  the  pages  of  Fracassetti's  edition  or  of  that 
of  1581,  as  the  case  may  be.  Much  aid  has 
been  derived  from  Korting's  standard  work, 
Petr areas  Leben  ^lnd  Werke ;  from  Fracas- 
setti's elaborate  notes  to  his  Italian  version  of 
the  letters  ;  from  Voigt's  masterly  analysis  of 
Petrarch's  character  and  career,  at  the  opening 
of  Die  Wiederbelebung  des  classischen  Alter- 
thums ;  and  especially  from  M.  Pierre  de  Nol- 
hac's  scholarly  and  fascinating  study,  Pttrarque 
et  r  Humanisme. 

Part  third  of  the  present  volume,  upon  Pe- 
trarch's classical  studies,  is  the  work  of  Mr. 
Rolfe,  and  the  whole  book  has  had  the  benefit 
of  his  acute  and  painstaking  revision. 

J.  H.  R. 

BlRCHWOOD,  JAFFREY,   N.   H., 

September,  1898. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFATORY  NOTE v 

LIST  AND  DESCRIPTION  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  ix 

INTRODUCTORY i 

I.— BIOGRAPHICAL    .      .      .      .  '   .      .  57 

II.— PETRARCH  AND  HIS  LITERARY  CON- 
TEMPORARIES      159 

III. — THE  FATHER  OF  HUMANISM      .      .  225 

IV.— TRAVELS 295 

V.— POLITICAL  OPINIONS  ;  RIENZO  AND 

CHARLES  IV 327 

VI. — THE  CONFLICT  OF  MONASTIC    AND 

SECULAR  IDEALS    379 

VII.— FINALE 415 

INDEX , 429 


VII 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


I.— A  SKETCH  OF  VAUCLUSE  BY  PETRARCH'S 

HAND cover 

II.— PORTRAIT  OF  PETRARCH      .      .     Frontispiece 

III. — A  PAGE  FROM  PETRARCH'S  COPY  OF  THE 

ILIAD page  238 


Through  the  kindness  of  M.  de  Nolhac,  and  with  the  generous 
permission  of  the  Flcole  des  hautes  Eludes  at  Paris,  the  editors  have 
been  enabled  to  reproduce  three  plates  of  unusual  historical  interest. 

I. — THE  SKETCH  OF  VAUCLUSE  with  the  inscription,  Transalpine, 
soliludo  mea  jocundissima — my  delightsome  Transalpine  retreat — 
which  appears  on  the  front  cover  of  this  volume,  was  discovered  by 
M.  de  Nolhac  in  Petrarch's  own  copy  of  Pliny's  Natural  History. 
A  reference  in  the  book  to  the  Fountain  of  the  Sorgue  suggested  to  its 
owner  the  idea  of  recalling  by  a  few  strokes  of  the  quill  his  memories 
of  a  spot  where  he  had  spent  so  many  years.  This  sketch,  his  only 
essay  at  pictorial  reproduction  which  has  come  down  to  us,  is  an 
interesting  illustration  of  the  versatility  of  self-expression  which  dis- 
tinguished him  from  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries. 

II.— THE  PORTRAIT,  which  forms  the  frontispiece,  is  taken  from 
a  manuscript  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris,  and  its  history  has 
been  carefully  traced  by  M.  de  Nolhac  (op.  cit.,  pp.  376  sqq.\  It 
adorns  the  first  page  of  a  copy  of  Petrarch's  own  work,  The  Lives  of 
Illustrious  Men,  which  was  transcribed  with  unusual  care  for  his  last 


x  Illustrations 

princely  patron,  the  ruler  of  Padua,  by  one  of  the  poet's  most  inti- 
mate and  trusted  friends,  Lombardo  della  Seta.  A  note  at  the  end 
of  the  work  states  that  Lombardo  completed  his  task  January  25, 
1379.  We  may,  therefore,  assume  that  this  portrait  was  executed  not 
later  than  four  and  a  half  years  after  Petrarch's  death,  in  the  city 
where  he  spent  much  of  his  time  during  the  closing  period  of  his  life, 
and  by  an  artist  selected  by  the  poet's  devoted  friends.  It  is  main- 
tained by  some  modern  historians  of  art  that  there  was,  in  those 
days,  no  real  feeling  for  portraiture ;  without,  however,  venturing 
into  the  domain  of  art  criticism,  we  may,  at  least,  claim  for  this 
sketch  almost  unimpeachable  historical  authenticity. 

III. — THE  FACSIMILE  of  a  page  from  one  of  Petrarch's  own  vol- 
umes will  give  some  idea,  to  those  unfamiliar  with  manuscripts,  of  the 
appearance  of  a  book  in  the  fourteenth  century  ;  it  shows  us,  too,  the 
untiring  energy  of  the  first  modern  scholar  in  emending  and  eluci- 
dating the  scattered  and  neglected  fragments  of  ancient  literature,  for 
which  he  made  such  diligent  search. 


INTRODUCTORY 


La  formula  qui  definit  le  mieux  Petrarque  est  celle 
qui  le  de"signe  comme  "  le  premier  homme  moderne." 
.  .  .  Par  la  direction  de  sa  pensee,  il  e"chappe  presque 
entierement  £  1'influence  de  son  siecle  et  de  son  milieu, 
ce  qui  est  sans  doute  la  marque  la  moins  contestable  du 
ge*nie." — PIERRE  DE  NOLHAC. 


FRANCESCO  PETRARCAisnowknown 
to  so  few,  save  as  a  lyric  poet  whose 
sonnets  are  somewhat  out  of  fashion,  that  it 
seems  necessary  to  explain  why  his  letters  pos- 
sess a  singular  interest  for  all  who  desire  to 
understand  the  progress  of  European  culture 
since  the  Middle  Ages.  That  an  Italian  critic 
should  venture  to  rank  him  with  Erasmus  and 
Voltaire,  each  in  his  age  the  intellectual  arbiter 
of  Europe,  will  seem  to  many  a  surprising  if 
not  absurd  aberration  of  national  pride.  Yet, 
in  bringing  these  three  names  together,  Car- 
ducci  claims  for  his  countryman  no  higher 
place  than  that  accorded  to  him  by  modern 
scholars  in  France  and  Germany.  Those  who 
have  most  conscientiously  studied  the  begin- 
ning of  the  transition  from  Mediaeval  to  Mod- 
ern times,  agree  in  recognising  in  him  one  of 
those"  incomparable  leaders  of  humanity  who 
have  not  only  dominated  the  literary  life  of  • 
their  own  generation,  but  have  directed  men's 
thoughts  into  new  channels  for  ages  to  follow.  1 

3 


4  Petrarch 

If  from  the  vantage-ground  of  to-day,  we  re- 
view the  course  of  enlightenment  as  exhibited 
in  Renaissance,  Reformation,  and  Revolution, 
we  perceive  that  Petrarch  stands  forth  among 
his  contemporaries  as  the  cosmopolitan  repre- 
sentative of  the  first  great  forward  movement. 
With  prophetic  insight,  he  declared  that  he 
stood  between  two  eras.  He  was  the  first 
to  look  back  and  realise  all  that  the  world  had 
lost  since  the  age  of  Augustus :  he  was  the 
first  to  point  out  the  way  in  which  the  lost 
might  be  retrieved.  With  the  frank  self-ap- 
preciation of  genius,  he  wrote  at  the  end  of 
his  life,  to  his  dearest  friend  Boccaccio  :  "  I 
certainly  will  not  reject  the  praise  which  you 
bestow  upon  me  for  having  stimulated  in  many 
instances,  not  only  in  Italy,  but,  perchance,  be- 
yond its  confines,  the  pursuit  of  studies  such  as 
ours,  which  have  suffered  neglect  for  so  many 
centuries.  I  am  indeed  one  of  the  oldest  of 
those  among  us  who  are  engaged  in  the  culti- 
vation of  these  subjects."  * 

In  order  to  grasp  the  momentous  import 
of  the  renewed  interest  in  Latin  literature  to 
which  Petrarch  thus  proudly  refers,  we  must 
remember  that  it  was  not  simply  a  sign  of  im- 
proved taste  but  that  it  involved  the  sub- 

1  Epistola  de  Rebus  Senilibus,  xvi.,  2. 


Introductory  5 

stitution  of  a  new  conception  of  life  and  its 
opportunities,  for  that  accepted  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  When  men  began  once  more  to  read 
Virgil  and  Cicero,  Horace  and  Juvenal,  intelli- 
gently, sympathetically,  admiringly,  they  had 
already  left  the  Middle  Ages  behind  them. 
The  mediaeval  scholar  placed  his  trust  in  dia- 
lectic. He  was  habitually  careless  of  his 
premises  so  long  as  his  logical  deductions  were 
unimpeachable.  He  made  no  effort,  in  short, 
to  acquaint  himself  with  the  best  that  had 
been  thought  and  said  in  the  world.  Though 
he  might  possess  extraordinary  intellectual 
keenness,  or,  like  Vincent  of  Beauvais,  the 
great  encyclopaedist  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
vast  erudition,  he  was  still  hopelessly  unformed 
and  ill-balanced,  for,  as  Matthew  Arnold  re- 
minds us,  "  Far  more  mistakes  come  from 
want  of  fresh  knowledge  than  from  want  of 
correct  reasoning ;  and,  therefore,  letters  meet 
a  greater  want  in  us  than  does  logic."  This 
is  the  secret  of  the  Renaissance  :  it  explains 
the  immense  significance  of  the  revival  of 
Latin  learning. 

Western  Europe  during  the  centuries  fol- 
lowing the  Teutonic  invasions  had  not  only 
forgotten  Greek  literature,  but  it  had  lost 
its  appreciation  of  most  that  was  best  in  the 


6  Petrarch 

classics  of  Rome,  and  nothing  had  taken  their 
place.  Treatises  were  written  in  great  numbers, 
but  relatively  little  that  can  be  called  literature 
in  the  higher  sense  of  the  word  was  produced, 
even  in  the  thirteenth  century,  except  the  often 
elaborate  but  evanescent  poems  and  romances 
in  the  vernacular.  To-day  we  can  acquaint  our- 
selves with'  much  of  the  best  that  has  been 
thought  and  said  in  the  world  without  going 
back  to  the  masterpieces  of  antiquity.  Each 
nation  of  Europe  now  has  its  national  literature, 
its  Shakespeare,  its  Dante,  its  Goethe,  or  its 
Voltaire,  with  a  noble  company  of  lesser  writ- 
ers, to  cherish  and  augment  the  literary  heri- 
tage of  the  Occident.  But  the  Middle  Ages 
enjoyed  no  such  advantage.  When,  therefore, 
men  tired  of  logic  and  theology,  they  turned 
back  with  single-hearted  enthusiasm  to  the 
age  of  Augustus,  and,  in  so  doing,  they  took 
a  great  step  forward,  for  the  valuable  thing  in 
literature,  to  quote  Arnold  once  more,  is  "  the 
judgment  which  forms  itself  insensibly  in  a 
fair  mind  along  with  fresh  knowledge  .  .  . 
this  judgment  comes  almost  of  itself  ;  and  what 
it  displaces  it  displaces  easily  and  naturally,  and 
without  any  turmoil  of  controversial  reason- 
ings. The  thing  comes  to  look  differently  to 
us,  as  we  look  at  it  by  the  light  of  fresh  know- 


Introductory  7 

ledge.  We  are  not  beaten  from  our  old  opin- 
ion by  logic,  we  are  not  driven  off  our  ground  ; — 
our  ground  itself  changes  with  us."  So  the 
change  from  the  characteristic  culture  of  the 
Middle  Ages  to  that  of  modern  times  took 
place  through  the  quietly  operating  agency  of 
Roman  literature. 

By  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century 
Western  Europe,  under  the  guidance  of  Italy, 
was  already  on  its  way  to  recover  what  had 
been  so  long  neglected.  There  was  by  that 
time  a  considerable  body  of  scholars  in  the 
modern  sense  of  the  word,  whose  admiration 
and  enthusiasm  for  the  works  of  the  ancients 
were  far  too  sincere  to  permit  them  longer  to 
adhere  to  the  then  generally  accepted  views 
of  man  and  the  universe.  The  secular  concep- 
tions and  predilections  which  fill  the  literature 
of  Rome  gradually  displaced  the  theological 
speculations  which  had  previously  engrossed 
the  educated  class.  The  merely  human  sud- 
denly asserted  itself  and  absorbed  the  attention 
of  the  new  generation — the  so-called  Human- 
ists. They  no  longer  pored  over  the  Sentences 
of  Peter  Lombard,  but  eagerly  turned  to  Cicero 
for  all  those  arts  that  go  to  the  making  of  a 
man  of  cultivation.1  The  humanities  became 

1  Cf.  Pro  Archia,  2. 


8  Petrarch 

almost  a  new  religion  for  them.  When, 
however,  we  are  tempted  to  deprecate  the 
often  absurd  exaggerations  of  which  the 
later  Humanists  were  guilty,  we  must  always 
recollect  the  essential  beneficence  of  their 
first  enthusiasm.  "Culture,  after  freeing  it- 
self from  the  bonds  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
could  not  at  once  and  without  aid  find  its  way 
to  an  understanding  of  the  physical  and  intel- 
lectual world.  It  rieeded  a  guide,  and  found 
one  in  the  ancient  civilisation,  with  its  wealth 
of  truth  and  its  knowledge  of  every  spiritual 
interest."  1 

Of  the  leaders  in  this  movement  towards  in- 
tellectual enfranchisement,  Petrarch  was  the 
first,  as  in  the  independence  of  his  thought  and 
the  scope  of  his  influence  he  was  the  greatest. 
"  Not  only  did  he  rouse  classical  antiquity  from 
its  long  winter  sleep  and  infuse  new  life  into 
a  paralysed  world ;  he  led  in  the  struggle 
against  existing  inertia  and  foresaw  a  new  era 
as  the  outcome  of  this  conflict.  He  pointed 
out  a  field  of  arduous  and  endless  effort,  but 
one  yielding  rich  returns.  He  gave  direction 
to  the  talents  of  hundreds,  and  if  he  was,  before 
many  generations,  excelled  in  more  than  one 
respect,  it  was  only  as  the  discoverer  of  the 

1  Burckhardt,  The  Civilisation  of  the  Renaissance,  Pt.  III.,  ch.  I. 


Introductory  9 

New  World  would  ere  long  have  had  to  give 
way  before  the  knowledge  of  a  schoolboy. 
Not  only  in  the  history  of  literature  in  Italy 
does  the  name  of  Petrarch  shine  as  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude,  but  in  the  history  of  the 
civilised  world,  yea,  in  the  history  of  the  human 
intellect  itself."1 

His  superior  historic  importance  is  not,  how- 
ever, generally  recognised,  owing  partly  to 
the  circumstance  that  the  testimony  which  he 
has  left  of  his  life's  work,  although  abundant, 
has  hitherto  been  obscured  for  most  of  us  by  an 
unfamiliar  tongue,  and  partly  to  the  want  of 
knowledge  of  the  period  in  which  he  lived.  For, 
to  grasp  the  full  significance  of  a  reformer,  we 
must  know  how  he  found  the  world  and  how 
he  left  it,  and  such  knowledge  comes  only  by 
laborious  study.  It  is  a  sad  commonplace  to 
the  thoughtful  student  of  the  past  that  the  suc- 
cessful reformer  is  sometimes  remembered  for 
his  weaknesses  rather  than  for  his  true  strength. 
Nothing  is  easier  than  to  pronounce  Voltaire 
a  shallow  deist,  Erasmus  a  timorous  dyspeptic, 
crying  peace  when  there  was  no  peace,  and  to 
see  in  Petrarch  only  the  lifelong  victim  of  an 
unfortunate  love  affair.  It  is  most  difficult,  on 

1  Voigt,  Die   Wiederbelebung  des  classischen  Altcrthums,  3d.  ed., 

VOl.  i.,  p.  22. 


io  Petrarch 

the  other  hand,  critically  to  estimate  the  vast 
influence  which  these  three  men  have  respect- 
ively exercised  over  the  world's  history.  For 
the  more  completely  a  reformer  accomplishes 
his  task,  the  more  surely  does  he  obscure  his 
own  importance  in  the  eyes  of  succeeding  gen- 
erations. His  most  startling  innovations  be- 
come the  ratified  institutions  of  posterity.  His 
most  original  ideas  merge  into  the  common 
stock  of  human  thought  and  appear  straight- 
way so  obvious  and  trite  as  to  seem  almost  in- 
nate. No  one  dreams  of  attacking  them  ;  no 
one  any  longer  takes  credit  to  himself  for 
defending  them. 

If  we  would  understand  any  one  of  the  great 
periods  of  transition,  we  must  view  the  conflict 
of  the  old  and  the  new  at  close  range,  consider 
the  strength  and  equipment  of  the  combatants 
and  the  precise  results  of  the  struggle.  Carrying 
ourselves  back  in  thought  to  the  fourteenth 
century,  we  shall  find  that  the  name  of  Fran- 
cesco Petrarca  stands  for  a  revolution  in  Euro- 
pean thought.  His  existence,  character,  and 
career  constituted  in  themselves,  as  has  been 
said  of  Voltaire,  *  a  new  and  prodigious  era. 
His  was  the  most  potent  individual  influence 
in  changing  the  whole  trend  of  intellectual  pur- 

1  Mr.  Motley's  Voltaire,  p.  i. 


Introductory  1 1 

suits,  not  only  in  his  own  country  but  ulti- 
mately in  Europe  at  large. 

It  may,  therefore,  be  considered  a  peculiarly 
fortunate  circumstance  that  there  is  perhaps  no 
other  historical  character  before  the  age  of 
Luther,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Cicero, 
who  has  left  so  complete  and  satisfactory  an  ac- 
count of  his  spiritual  life  and  environment.  It 
was  not  customary  until  long  after  his  time  to 
compose  memoirs  for  posterity,  but  in  the  al- 
most daily  messages  to  his  friends  he  has  given 
us  something  not  very  unlike  the  "journal 
intime"  of  modern  times.  In  his  correspond- 
ence and  Confessions  he  is  the  first  to  exhibit  a 
passion  for  self-expression  and  the  modern  love 
of  self-analysis.  From  amid  a  shadowy  throng 
of  worthies  whose  personality  has  been  com- 
pletely obliterated  by  the  lapse  of  time,  Petrarch 
alone  stands  out  in  clear  outline  ;  and  as  we 
greet  him  across  the  gulf  of  centuries,  we  recog- 
nise in  him  a  man  of  like  passions  with  our- 
selves. 

Petrarch  the  reformer,  the  first  modern 
scholar,  the  implacable  enemy  of  ignorance 
and  superstition  ;  Petrarch  the  counsellor  of 
princes,  the  leader  of  men,  and  the  idol  of  his 
age,  has  been  long  forgotten.  Were  it  not  that 
the  melody  of  his  graceful  Italian  verses  still 


12  Petrarch 

echoes  in  our  ears  with  the  ever  fresh  pathos 
of  unrequited  love,  his  name  would  be  as  little 
known  as  that  of  many  another  good  man  who 
ardently  strove  in  his  day  and  generation  to 
better  the  world.  Yet  to  their  author  the  in- 
comparable sonnets  seemed  little  more  than  a 
youthful  diversion.  They  earned  for  him,  as 
he  admits,  a  despised  notoriety  among  the  il- 
literate multitude,  but  could  never  constitute 
the  foundation  of  a  scholar's  fame.  Had  he 
suspected  that  posterity  would  perversely  brush 
aside  the  great  Latin  works  which  cost  him 
years  of  toil,  and  keep  only  his  "  popular  trifles  " 
(nugellas  meas  vulgar es)?  his  chronic  melancholy 
/might  have  deepened  into  dark  despair.  In 
[later  life,  his  sonnets  suggested  to  him  only  the 
impotent  cravings  of  a  passion  unworthy  of  a 
philosophic  nature.  He  had  in  his  early  days 
fled  to  the  solitude  of  Vaucluse  to  escape  a 
consuming  fire  kindled  by  a  hopeless  attach- 
ment. But  here  he  found  no  relief,  and  the 
flame  which  was  devouring  his  heart  burst  from 
his  lips,  he  tells  us,  and  "  filled  the  vales  with  a 
mournful  murmur, — not  without  sweetness,  it 
seemed  to  some."  "  Hence,"  he  writes,  "  these 

1  Vulgaris,  when  taken  at  its  best,  means  "  popular"  ;  when  used 
of  verses  it  implied,  of  course,  that  they  were  in  the  vulgar  tongue. 
There  was  no  need  in  Petrarch's  day  to  distinguish  between  "  for  the 
people  "  and  "  in  Italian." 


Introductory  13 

popular  songs,1  the  result  of  my  youthful 
distress,  now  overwhelm  me  with  shame  and 
regret,  although,  as  we  see,  they  are  still  ac- 
ceptable enough  to  those  suffering  from  the 
same  malady." 

Near  the  close  of  his  life  Petrarch  undertook 
to  prepare  a  copy  of  his  Italian  verses  for  a 
friend.  "  Their  heterogeneous  character,"  he 
apologetically  explains,  "  may  find  an  excuse 
in  the  fitful  madness  of  a  lover,  a  theme  which 
is  touched  upon  in  their  very  first  lines.  The 
crudeness  of  their  style  must  seek  its  extenua- 
tion in  my  youth,  for  I  wrote  a  great  part  of  what 
you  read  in  my  early  years.  ...  I  look  with 
aversion,  I  must  confess,  upon  the  silly,  boyish 
things  (vulgari  juveniles  ineptias)  I  then  pro: 
duced  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  of  which  I  could 
wish  everyone  ignorant,  myself  included. 
Although  their  style  may  testify  to  a  certain 
ability,  considering  the  period  at  which  I  com- 
posed them,  their  subject-matter  ill  comports 
with  the  gravity  of  age.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
They  are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  public  and 
are  read  more  willingly  than  the  serious  works 
that,  with  more  highly  developed  faculties,  I 
have  written  since." 

1  Vulgaria  cantica,  cf.  Ep.  vi.,  in  Fracassetti's  Appendix  Litterarum, 
in  his  edition  of  the  letters,  vol.  iii.,  p.  523. 

2  Sen.,  xiii.,  10  ;  Opera  (1581),  p.  923. 


H  Petrarch 

Posterity  continues  to  accept  the  verdict 
of  the  vulgus,  while  Petrarch's  scholarly  trea- 
tises have  long  suffered  neglect.  More  than 
three  centuries  have  elapsed  since  a  publisher 
has  ventured  to  issue  an  edition  of  the  collected 
Latin  works,  and  were  it  not  for  his  "  silly 
lines  "  he  would  enjoy  no  greater  fame  than 
the  once  illustrious  Mussato  or  Salutati,  his 
contemporaries. 

The  recently  revived  attention  to  Petrarch's 
r6le  in  the  history  of  civilisation  has  led  to  an 
inevitable  depreciation  of  the  beautiful  lyrics, 
which  had  so  long  been  looked  upon  as  his 
sole  claim  to  immortality.  A  German  scholar 
has  gone  so  far  as  to  declare  that  Petrarch 
would  be  no  less  bright  a  star  in  the  history  of 
the  human  mind,  had  he  never  written  a  verse 
of  Italian.1  This  very  obvious  exaggeration  is 
perhaps  both  natural  and  salutary.  The  Latin 
works,  especially  the  letters,  are  so  fascinat- 
ing and  exhibit  such  new  and  important  phases 
of  his  character  and  ideals,  that  those  who 
have  enthusiastically  busied  themselves  with 
them  have  gradually  come  to  accept  the  poet's 
repeated  assertion  that  his  Italian  works  were 
mere  youthful  trifles,  of  no  interest  as  com- 
pared with  his  great  Latin  epic  or  his  various 

1  Voigt,  op.  fit.,  i.,  22. 


Introductory  15 

treatises.1  Yet  the  world  has  decided  other- 
wise, and  decided  rightly.  It  has  allowed  over 
three  hundred  years  to  pass  without  demand- 
ing a  new  edition  of  those  Latin  works,  by 
which  the  author  sought  to  gain  everlasting 
renown,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  hundreds  of 
editions  of  the  despised  Canzoniere  have  been 
published,  not  only  in  the  original  but  in 
many  translations. 

In  our  endeavour  to  understand  the  great 
intellectual  leader  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
we  must,  as  De  Sanctis  warns  us,2  guard  against 
the  temptation  to  regard  the  Petrarch  of  the 
sonnets  as  traditional  and  mutilated,  while  we 
pretend  to  reconstruct  the  real  and  complete 
Petrarch  from  his  inferior  and  long-neglected 
writings.  For  the  poet  finds  his  fullest  ex- 
pression in  his  greatest  literary  wt>rk,  the 
Italian  lyrics  ;  this  the  world  at  large  shrewdly 
guessed  from  the  first,  and  it  has  never  altered 
its  opinion.  No  one  really  familiar  with  the 
letters  will  fail  to  recognise  in  them  the  author 
of  the  sonnets.  We  find  there  the  same 
strength  and  weakness,  the  same  genuine 
feeling,  often  disguised  by  mannerisms  and 

1  For  Petrarch's  attitude  toward  the  Italian  language  the  reader  is 
referred  to  Part  II.,  below. 

*  Saggio  Critico  sul  Petrarca,  2d.  ed.,  Naples,  1883,  P-  I2« 


1 6  Petrarch 

traditional  conceits,  the  same  aspirations  and 
conflicts,  the  same  subjectivity  and  self-analy- 
sis. We  have  to  do  with  a  single  great  spirit 
revealing  itself  with  a  diversity  and  mobility  of 
literary  form  known  only  to  genius.  Opening 
the  Canzoniere,  we  find  in  the  following  lines 
sentiments  which  might  have  been  despatched 
in  an  elegant  epistle  to  his  friend  Nelli,  or  to 
"  Laelius,"  or  recorded  in  his  Confessions. 

Ma  ben  veggi'  or  si  come  al  popol  tutto 
Favola  fui  gran  tempo :  onde  sovente 
Di  me  medesmo  meco  mi  vergogno : 

E  del  mio  vaneggiar  vergogna  e  '1  frutto, 
E  '1  pentirsi,  e  '1  conoscer  chiaramente 
Che  quanto  piace  al  mondo  e  breve  sogno.1 

But  even  if  it  be  admitted  that  the  lyrics 
form  Petrarch's  greatest  claim  to  renown,  and 
that  the  letters  often  only  reflect,  as  might  be 
anticipated,  sentiments  familiar  to  the  thought- 
ful reader  of  the  Italian  verses,  yet  the  poems 
alone  can  never  tell  the  whole  story  of  their 
author's  importance  and  influence.  Literary 
ideals  which  have  no  place  in  the  sonnets  are 
to  be  found  in  the  letters  ;  in  them  we  may 
study  the  reviver  of  a  forgotten  culture,  and 
the  prophet  of  an  era  of  intellectual  advance 
the  direct  results  of  which  we  still  enjoy. 

1  From  the  first  sonnet,  beginning,  Voi  ch'ascoltate. 


Introductory  1 7 

The  Middle  Ages  furnish  us  no  earlier  ex- 
ample of  the  psychological  analysis  which  we 
discover  in  both  the  verse  and  prose  of  Pet- 
rarch. His  writings  are  the  first  to  reveal 
completely  a  human  soul,  with  its  struggles,  its 
sufferings,  and  its  contradictions.  "  Petrarch 
was  a  master  in  one  respect  at  least,  he  under- 
stood how  to  picture  himself ;  through  him  the 
inner  world  first  receives  recognition ;  he  first 
notes,  observes,  analyses,  and  sets  forth  its  phe- 
nomena."1 The  all-pervading  self-conscious- 
ness that  meets  us  in  the  letters  is  sure  to 
produce  a  painful  impression  as  we  first  open 
them.  It  may,  for  a  time,  indeed,  seem  little 
better  than  common  priggishness.  But  behind 
a  thin  veil  of  vanity  and  morbid  sensitiveness 
we  straightway  discover  a  great  soul  grappling 
with  the  mystery  of  life.  BafHed  by  the  con- 
tradictions that  it  feels  within  itself,  it  gropes 
tremblingly  towards  a  new  ideal  of  earthly  ex- 
istence. 

Petrarch  was  not  content  to  live  unquestion- 
ingly,  adjusting  his  conduct?to  the  conventional 
standard.  H e  was  constantly  preoccupied  with 
his  own  aims  and  motives.  Nor  was  the  prob- 
lem that  he  confronted  a  simple  one,  for  the 
old  and  the  new  were  contending  for  supremacy 

1  Gaspary,  Geschichte  der  italienischen  Literatur,  1885,  i.,  480. 


1 8  Petrarch 

within  his  breast.  The  mediaeval  conception 
of  our  mortal  life  was  that  of  a  brief  period 
of  probation,  during  which  each  played  his 
obscure  r6le  in  the  particular  group,  guild, 
or  corporation  to  which  Providence  had  as- 
signed him,  bearing  his  burdens  patiently  in 
the  beatific  vision  of  a  speedy  reward  in  an- 
other and  better  world.  Petrarch  formally  as- 
sented to  this  view  but  never  accepted  it.  The 
preciousness  of  life's  opportunity  was  ever 
before  him.  Life  was  certainly  a  preparation 
for  heaven,  but,  he  asked  himself,  was  it  not 
something  more  ?  Might  there  not  be  worthy 
secular  aims  ?  Might  not  one  raise  himself 
above  those  about  him  and  earn  the  approval 
of  generations  to  come,  as  the  great  writers  of 
antiquity  had  done  ?  His  longing  to  obtain  an 
earthly  reputation,  and  the  temptation  con- 
sciously to  direct  his  energies  toward  achieving 
posthumous  fame,  seemed  to  him  now  a  noble 
instinct,  and  again,  when  tradition  weighed 
heavily  upon  him,  a  godless  infatuation.  In 
order  to  put  the  matter  before  himself  in  all  its 
aspects  he  prepared  an  imaginary  dialogue,  af- 
ter the  model  offered  by  Plato  and  Cicero,  be- 
tween himself  and  Saint  Augustine.  This  little 
book  he  called  his  "  Secret,"  as  he  did  not  desire 
to  have  it  enumerated  among  the  works  he  had 


Introductory  19 

written  for  fame's  sake  :  and  here  he  recorded 
his  spiritual  conflicts  for  his  own  personal  good.1 
Of  the  contents  of  this  extraordinary  confession 
something  will  be  said  later.  Its  very  existence 
is  an  historic  fact  of  the  utmost  significance.2 

Petrarch  aspired  to  be  both  a  poet  and  a 
scholar,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  defi- 
nitely whether  in  his  later  years  he  looked 
upon  his  great  Latin  epic  or  upon  his  histori- 
cal works  as  his  best  title  to  fame.  He  often 
refers  to  the  high  mission  of  the  poet,  and  in 
the  address  that  he  delivered  at  Rome,  when  he 
received  the  laurel  crown,  he  took  for  his  sub- 
ject the  nature  of  poetry.  For  him  poetry 
embraced  only  Latin  verse  in  its  classical  form. 
The  popular,  rhyming  cadences  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  which  the  rhythmic  accent  followed 
not  quantity  but  the  prose  accent,3  doubtless 

1  Cf.  Preface  to  Dialogus  de  Contetnptu  Mundi,  as  the  work  is 
called  in  the  Basle  editions.     Many  MSS.  entitle  the  work  more  ap- 
propriately De  Secreto  Conflictu  Curarum  Suarum.      Cf.  Voigt,  op. 
cit.,  p.  132. 

2  See  below,  pp.  93  sqq.  and  404  sqq. 

3  For  example  the  familiar, 

Dies  irae,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla., 
or  Abelard's  lines  : 

In  hac  urbe  lux  solemnis, 
Ver  aeternum,  pax  perennis. 
In  hac  odor  implens  ccelos, 
In  hac  semper  festum  melos. 


20  Petrarch 

seemed  to  him  no  more  deserving  of  the  name 
of  poetry  than  Dante's  Commedia  or  his  own 
Italian  sonnets.  We  shall  have  occasion  later 
to  describe  his  peculiar  conception  of  allegory.1 

As  a  scholar  Petrarch  had  no  definite  bent. 
"  Among  the  many  subjects  which  have  inter- 
ested me,"  he  says,  "  I  have  dwelt  especially 
upon  antiquity,  for  our  own  age  has  always  re- 
pelled me,  so  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  love 
of  those  dear  to  me,  I  should  have  preferred  to 
have  been  born  in  any  other  period  than  our 
own.  In  order  to  forget  my  own  time  I  have 
constantly  striven  to  place  myself  in  spirit  in 
other  ages,  and  consequently  I  have  delighted 
in  history."2  We  shall  not  then  be  going  far 
astray  if  we  style  Petrarch  a  classical  philologist, 
using  the  term  in  a  broad  sense,  and  always  re- 
membering that  an  enlightened  and  enthusias- 
tic classical  philologist  was  just  what  the  world 
most  needed  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

Although  the  letters  are  by  far  the  most  in- 
teresting of  Petrarch's  Latin  productions,  the 
reader  may  be  curious  to  know  something  of 
the  character  and  extent  of  the  other  long- 
forgotten  books  which  the  author  trusted 
would  earn  him  eternal  fame.  No  complete 

1  See  below,  p.  233  sqq. 
*  Letter  to  Posterity. 


Introductory  21 

edition  of  his  works  has  ever  been  published,1 
but  were  they  brought  together,  they  would 
fill  some  seventeen  volumes  of  the  size  of  the 
present  one,  and  we  may  imagine  that  the 
publishers  would  issue  them  somewhat  as 
follows  : 

Vols.  I- VI 1 1,  The  Letters. 

IX-X,  Phisicke  against  Fortune,  as  well  Prosperous 
as  Adverse  a  (De  Remediis  Utriusque  Fortunae). 

XI,  Historical  Anecdotes    (Rerum    Memorandum 
Libri  IV). 

XII,  Lives  of  Famous  Men. 

XIII,  The  Life  of  Julius  Casar? 

XIV,  The  Life  of  Solitude  and  On  Monastic  Lei- 
sure. 

XV,  Miscellany,    including  the   Confessions  (De 
Contemptu  Mundi  seu  Suum  Secretum),  Invectives, 
Addresses,  and  Minor  Essays. 

XVI,  Latin    Verse,  comprising   the   Africa,  the 
Eclogues,  and  sixty-seven  Metrical  Epistles. 

XVII,  The  Italian  Verse,  comprising  the  Sonnets, 
Canzone,  and  Occasional  Poems. 

Of  the  Latin  works  only  one  can  be  said 
to  have  enjoyed  any  considerable  popularity. 

1  The  wretchedly  printed  editions  published  at  Basle  in  1554  and 
1581  are  the  most  complete,  but  they  omit  the  work  on  Famous  Men 
and  nearly  half  of  the  letters. 

?  As  first  (and  last)  Englished  by  Thomas  Twyne,  London,  1579. 

3  This  is  a  part  of  the  Lives  of  Famous  Men,  but  is  nearly  as  long 
as  all  the  others  together. 


22  Petrarch 

Of  the  Antidotes  for  Good  and  Evil  Fortune 
there  were  over  twenty  Latin  editions  is- 
sued from  1471  to  I756.1  And  besides  the 
Latin  original,  translations  exist  in  English, 
Bohemian,  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and 
several  in  German.  Yet  only  one  or  two  new 
editions  have  been  demanded  during  the  past 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  first  part 
of  the  work  is  destined  to  establish  the  vanity 
of  all  earthly  subjects  of  congratulation,  from 
the  possession  of  a  chaste  daughter  to  the  pro- 
prietorship of  a  flourishing  hennery.  In  the 
second  part  comfort  is  administered  to  those 
who  have  lost  a  wife  or  child,  or  are  suffering 
from  toothache,  a  ruined  reputation,  the  fear 
of  lingering  death,  or  are  painfully  conscious 
that  they  are  growing  too  fat.  What  seems  to 
us  mere  cant  and  cynical  commonplace  may  well 
have  gratified  a  generation  that  delighted  in 
the  frescos  of  the  cemetery  at  Pisa,  but  the 
popularity  of  the  book  naturally  waned  just  as 
Dances  of  Death  lost  their  charm.  Yet  the 
essays  are  not  entirely  without  interest,2  and 
their  variety  and  paradoxicalness,  if  nothing 
else,  may  still  hold  the  attention. 

1  Cf.  Ferrazzi,"  Bibliografia  Petrarchesca,"  in  vol.  v.  of  his  Enciclo- 
pedia  Dante  sea,  Bassano,  1877. 

*  E.  g. ,  Book  i. ,  chap,  xliii.:  on  the  possession  of  a  library. 


Introductory  23 

The  two  works  upon  which  Petrarch  pro- 
bably based  his  literary  reputation  were  the 
long  Latin  epic,  the  Africa,  and  his  Lives  of 
Famous  Men.  These  are  often  referred  to  in 
his  correspondence,  especially  the  Africa. 
This  was,  however,  never  finished,  and  in  his 
later  years  came  to  be  a  subject  which  the 
author  could  not  hear  mentioned  without  a 
sense  of  irritation.  The  poem  was  printed 
half  a  dozen  times  in  the  sixteenth  century.1 
The  biographical  work  fared  much  worse,  and 
was,  with  the  exception  of  the  Life  of  Ccesar, 
not  printed  until  our  own  day.2 

Among  the  lesser  works,  the  Confessions 
and  an  essay  on  The  Life  of  Solitude  were  each 
printed  eight  or  nine  times  before  the  year 
1700.  The  letters  also  found  readers.  We 
have,  however,  but  to  glance  at  the  list  of 
editions  of  the  Canzoniere  to  see  how  "  these 
trivial  verses,  filled  with  the  false  and  offen- 
sive praise  of  women,"  rather  than  his  Latin 
epic  and  scholarly  compilations,  have  served 
to  keep  his  memory  green.  Thirty-four  edi- 

1  Conradini   has  edited  the  work  in  Padova  a  Petrarca,  1874,  ai)d 
there  are  now  two  Italian  versions  and  one  in  French. 

2  Edited  by  A.  Razzolini,  Bologna,  1874-9,  in  Collezione  di  Ofere 
Inedite  o  Rare.     Vols.  34-36.     The  Life  of  Ccesar  was  carefully  edit- 
ed by  Schneider  (Leipzig,    1827),  with   a   discussion   of   Petrarch's 
divergences  from  classical  Latin, 


24  Petrarch 

tions  of  the  Italian  verses  were  printed  before 
1500,  and  one  hundred  and  sixty-seven  in  the 
sixteenth  century.  Since  1600  some  two  hun- 
dred more  have  appeared.1 

It  is  not,  however,  in  his  formal  treatises  that 
the  source  of  Petrarch's  influence  is  to  be  found. 
They  may  aid  us  better  to  understand  their 
author,  but  they  can  never  explain  the  charm 
which  he  exercised  over  his  contemporaries. 
He  was  not  only  an  indefatigable  scholar  him- 
self, but  he  possessed  the  power  of  stimulating, 
by  his  example,  the  scholarly  ambition  of  those 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  He  rendered 
the  study  of  the  Latin  classics  popular  among 
cultivated  persons,  and  by  his  own  untiring  ef- 
forts to  discover  the  lost  or  forgotten  works  of 
the  great  writers  of  antiquity  he  roused  a  new 
and  general  enthusiasm  for  the  formation  of 
libraries  and  the  critical  determination  of  the 
proper  readings  in  the  newly  found  manuscripts. 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  imagine  the  obstacles 
which  confronted  the  scholars  of  the  early 
Renaissance.  They  possessed  no  critical  edi- 
tions of  the  classics  in  which  the  text  had 
been  established  by  a  comparison  of  all  the 

1  For  this  whole  subject  see  Ferrazzi,  op.  cit. ,  especially  p.  760. 
An  excellent  analysis  of  the  Latin  works  may  be  found  in  Kfirting, 
Petr arccts  Leben  u.  Werke,  Leipzig,  1878,  pp.  542  sqq. 


Introductory  25 

available  codices.  They  considered  themselves 
fortunate  to  discover  a  single  copy  of  even  well- 
known  authors.  And  so  corrupt  was  the 
text,  Petrarch  declares,  by  reason  of  careless 
transcriptions,  that  should  Cicero  or  Livy  re- 
turn and  stumblingly  read  his  own  writings 
once  more,  he  would  promptly  declare  them 
the  work  of  another,  perhaps  of  a  barbarian.1 

While  copies  of  the  Aineid,  of  Horace's 
Satires,  and  of  certain  of  Cicero's  Orations,  of 
Ovid,  Seneca,  and  a  few  other  authors,  were  ap- 
parently by  no  means  uncommon  during  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  it  seemed  to 
Petrarch,  who  had  learned  through  the  refer- 
ences of  Cicero,  Quintilian,  Saint  Augustine, 
and  others,  something  of  the  original  extent  of 
Latin  literature,  that  treasures  of  inestimable 
value  had  been  lost  by  the  shameful  indifference 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  "  Each  famous  author 
of  antiquity  whom  I  recall,"  he  indignantly  ex- 
claims, "  places  a  new  offence  and  another 
cause  of  dishonour  to  the  charge  of  later  gener- 
tions,  who,  not  satisfied  with  their  own  dis- 
graceful barrenness,  permitted  the  fruit  of  other 
minds  and  the  writings  that  their  ancestors  had 
produced  by  toil  and  application,  to  perish 
through  insufferable  neglect.  Although  they 

1  De  Rent.  Utriusq.  Fortunes,  i.,  43  ;  Opera  (1581),  p.  43. 


26  Petrarch 

had  nothing  of  their  own  to  hand  down  to 
those  who  were  to  come  after,  they  robbed 
posterity  of  its  ancestral  heritage."1  The  col- 
lection of  a  library  was,  then,  the  first  duty  of 
one  whose  mission  it  was  to  re-establish  the 
world  in  its  literary  patrimony. 

A  man's  books  are  not  a  bad  measure  of  the 
man  himself,  provided  he  be  what  Lowell  calls  a 
book-man,  and  his  collections  be  really  a  genuine 
expression  of  his  preferences  and  not  those  of 
his  grandfather  or  his  bookseller.  If  this  is 
true  to-day,  with  the  all-pervading  spirit  of 
commercial  enterprise  which  constantly  im- 
poses upon  our  tastes,  how  much  more  true 
must  it  have  been  when  Petrarch,  with  all  his 
self-sacrificing  enthusiasm  and  industry,brought 
together  during  a  long  life  only  two  hundred 
volumes.2  Books  in  those  days  were  of  course 
laboriously  produced  by  hand.  There  was  no 
device  to  secure  uniformity  in  the  copies  of  a 
work  as  they  were  slowly  written  off  by  the  same 
or  different  persons.  Each  scribe  inevitably 
made  new  mistakes  which  could  be  safely  cor- 
rected only  by  a  comparison  with  the  author's 
manuscript.  The  average  copyist  was  ap- 

1  Rerum  Mem.,  i.,  2,  as  corrected  by  M.  de  Nolhac  :  Pttrarque  et 
V Humanisms,  p.  268. 
*  Cf.  de  Nolhac,  op.  cit. ,  p.  99, 


Introductory  27 

parently  hardly  more  careful  than  the  type- 
setter of  to-day.  A  book  as  it  came  from  his 
hands  was  little  better  than  uncorrected  galley 
proof. 

In  one  case,  Petrarch  tried  for  years  to  get 
one  of  his  shorter  works,  The  Life  of  Solitude, 
satisfactorily  transcribed,  so  that  he  could  send 
a  copy  of  it  to  the  friend  to  whom  he  had  dedi- 
cated it.  He  writes : 

"  I  have  tried  ten  times  and  more  to  have  it 
copied  in  such  a  way  that,  even  if  the  style 
should  not  please  either  the  ears  or  the  mind, 
the  eyes  might  yet  be  gratified  by  the  form  of 
the  letters.  But  the  faithfulness  and  industry 
of  the  copyists,  of  which  I  am  constantly  com- 
plaining and  with  which  you  are  familiar,  have, 
in  spite  of  all  my  earnest  efforts,  frustrated  my 
wishes.  These  fellows  are  verily  the  plague 
of  noble  minds.  What  I  have  just  said  must 
seem  incredible.  A  work  written  in  a  few 
months  cannot  be  copied  in  so  many  years  ! 
The  trouble  and  discouragement  involved  in 
the  case  of  more  important  books  is  obvious. 
At  last,  after  all  these  fruitless  trials,  on  leav- 
ing home,  I  put  the  manuscript  into  the 
hands  of  a  certain  priest  to  copy.  Whether 
he  will,  as  a  priest,  perform  his  duty  conscien- 
tiously, or,  as  a  copyist,  be  ready  to  deceive,  I 


28  Petrarch 

cannot  yet  say.  I  learn  from  the  letters  of 
friends  that  the  work  is  done.  Of  its  quality, 
knowing  the  habits  of  this  tribe  of  copyists,  I 
shall  continue  to  harbour  doubts  until  I  actually 
see  it.  Such  is  the  ignorance,  laziness,  or 
arrogance  of  these  fellows,  that,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  they  do  not  reproduce  what  you 
give  them,  but  write  out  something  quite 
different."  1 

Each  copy  of  a  work  had,  therefore,  before 
the  invention  of  printing,  its  own  peculiar  vir- 
tues and  vices.  A  correct  and  clearly  written 
codex  possessed  charms  which  no  modern 
"  numbered  "  edition  on  wide-margined  paper 
can  equal.  We  have  many  indications  of  the 
affection  which  Petrarch  felt  for  his  books  and 
which  he  instilled  into  others.  Even  his 
rustic  old  servant  at  Vaucluse  learned  to  dis- 
tinguish the  various  volumes,  great  and  small. 
The  old  fellow  would  glow  with  satisfaction, 
his  master  tells  us,  when  a  book  was  put  into 
his  hands  to  be  replaced  upon  the  shelves ; 
pressing  it  to  his  bosom,  he  would  softly  mur- 
mur the  name  of  the  author.2  Petrarch's 

1  Sen.,  v.,  i;  Opera  (1581),  p.  792.    Compare,  on  the  general  subject, 
G.  H.  Putnam's  Books  and  their  Makers  in  the  Middle  Ages,  New 
York,  1896. 

2  Epistolce  de  Rebus  Familiaribus,    xvi.,   I  (Fracassetti's  edition, 
vol.  ii.,  p.  363). 


Introductory  29 

interest  was,  however,  no  selfish  one  ;  he  fondly 
hoped  that  his  collection  would  become  the 
nucleus  of  a  great  public  library,  such  as  we 
find  a  century  or  two  after  his  time.  When 
he  could  no  longer  foster  interest  in  his 
favourite  studies  by  his  own  potent  presence 
and  by  his  letters  to  his  friends  and  fellow- 
scholars,  his  books,  with  their  careful  anno- 
tations and  textual  corrections,  would  form  a 
permanent  incentive  to  progress. 

Ale  chose  Venice  as  the  most  appropriate 
place  to  establish  his  library.  The  letter  in 
which  he  offers  to  leave'  his  books  to  that  city 
gives  us  a  clear  notion  of  his  purpose.  Lay- 
ing aside  all  regard  for  classical  models,  he 
addressed  the  Venetian  Government  in  the 
current  Latin  of  the  chancery: 

"  Francesco  Petrarca  desires,  if  it  shall  please 
Christ  and  St.  Mark,  to  bequeath  to  that 
blessed  Evangelist  the  books  he  now  possesses 
or  may  acquire  in  the  future,  on  condition  that 
the  books  shall  not  be  sold  or  in  any  way  scat- 
tered, but  shall  be  kept  in  perpetuity  in  some  ap- 
pointed place,  safe  from  fire  and  rain,  in  honour 
of  the  said  saint  and  as  a  memorial  of  the 
giver,  as  well  as  for  the  encouragement  and 
convenience  of  the  scholars  and  gentlemen  of 
the  said  city  who  may  delight  in  such  things. 


30  Petrarch 

He  does  not  wish  this  because  his  books  are 
very  numerous  or  very  valuable,  but  is  impelled 
by  the  hope  that  hereafter  that  glorious  city 
may,  from  time  to  time,  add  other  works  at 
the  public  expense,  and  that  private  individuals, 
nobles,  or  other  citizens  who  love  their  coun- 
try, or  perhaps  even  strangers,  may  follow  his 
example  and  leave  a  part  of  their  books,  by 
their  last  will,  to  the  said  church.  Thus  it 
may  easily  fall  out  that  the  collection  shall 
one  day  become  a  great  and  famous  library, 
equal  to  those  of  the  ancients.  The  glory 
which  this  would  shed  upon  this  State  can  be 
understood  by  learned  and  ignorant  alike. 
Should  this  be  brought  about,  with  the  aid  of 
God  and  of  the  famous  patron  of  your  city, 
the  said  Francesco  would  be  greatly  rejoiced, 
and  glorify  God  that  he  had  been  permitted  to 
be,  in  a  way,  the  source  of  this  great  benefit. 
He  may  write  at  greater  length  if  the  affair 
proceeds.  That  it  may  be  quite  clear  that  he 
does  not  mean  to  confine  himself  in  so  import- 
ant a  matter  to  mere  words,  he  desires  to 
accomplish  what  he  promises,  etc. 

"  In  the  meantime  he  would  like  for  himself 
and  the  said  books  a  house,  not  large,  but  re- 
spectable \honestam\,  in  order  that  none  of  the 
accidents  to  which  mortals  are  subject  shall  in- 


Introductory  31 

terfere  with  the  realisation  of  his  plan.  He 
would  gladly  reside  in  the  city  if  he  can  con- 
veniently do  so,  but  of  this  he  cannot  be  sure, 
owing  to  numerous  difficulties.  Still  he  hopes 
that  he  may  do  so."  1 

September  4,  1362,  the  grand  council  deter- 
mined to  accept  the  offer  of  Petrarch,  "  whose 
glory,"  the  document  recites,  "was  such 
throughout  the  whole  world  that  no  one,  in  the 
memory  of  man,  could  be  compared  with  him 
in  all  Christendom,  as  a  moral  philosopher  and 
a  poet."  The  expense  for  a  suitable  dwelling 
was  to  be  met  from  the  public  treasury,  and  the 
officials  of  St.  Mark's  were  ready  to  provide  a 
proper  place  for  the  books. 

Petrarch  lived  for  several  years,  as  we  shall 
see,  in  the  house  furnished  by  the  Venetian 
Government,  and  it  was,  until  recently,  believed 
that  his  books  were  sent  to  the  city,  and,  to  the 
disgrace  of  the  Republic,  allowed  to  perish 
from  negligence.  Tommasini,  the  author  of  a 
once  esteemed  life  of  Petrarch,  reports  the  dis- 
covery in  1634,  in  a  room  of  St.  Mark's,  of  cer- 
tain stray  volumes  nearly  destroyed  by  moisture 
and  neglect,2  which  he  assumed  to  be  the  re- 

1  The  Latin  original,  transcribed  from  the  archives  of  Venice,  is  to 
be  found  in  de  Nolhac,  op.  cit.,  p.  80. 

5  Petrarcha  Redivivus,  ad  ed.  (Padua,   1650),  p.  72. 


32  Petrarch 

mains  of  Petrarch's  original  collection.  This 
has  recently  been  shown  to  be  a  mistake,  for 
the  books  in  question  never  belonged  to  Pe- 
trarch, many  indeed  dating  from  the  next  cen- 
tury. There  is,  in  fact,  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  his  library  ever  reached  Venice  after  his 
death. 

M.  Pierre  de  Nolhac  has  succeeded,  by  the 
most  minute  and  painstaking  study  of  Petrarch's 
handwriting  and  habits  of  annotation,  in  par- 
tially reconstructing  a  catalogue  of  his  books. 
The  fate  of  the  poet's  collection  was  a  matter 
of  vital  interest  to  the  literary  men  of  his  time. 
Immediately  after  his  death,  Boccaccio  wrote 
to  ask  what  had  been  done  with  the  bibliotheca 
pretiosissima.  Some,  he  said,  reported  one 
thing  and  some  another.  But  the  books  evi- 
dently found  their  way  to  Padua,  for  it  was  there 
that  Coluccio  Salutati  and  others  sent  for 
copies,  not  only  of  Petrarch's  own  works,  but 
of  rare  classics  which  he  possessed,  such  as 
Propertius  and  the  less  known  orations  of 
Cicero.  Petrarch's  last  tyrant-patron,  Fran- 
cesco di  Carrara,  Lord  of  Padua,  had  for  sev- 
eral years  been  upon  bad  terms  with  Venice, 
and  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  the  famous 
library,  once  in  his  possession,  was  never  de- 
livered to  St.  Mark's,  as  its  owner  had  intended. 


Introductory  33 

The  prince  appears  to  have  sold  many  of  the 
volumes,  although  he  retained  a  choice  selec- 
tion for  himself.  A  renewal  of  the  wars  with 
his  neighbours  brought  upon  him,  however,  a 
final  calamity,  and  he  was  forced  to  cede  all 
of  his  possessions,  in  1388,  to  Gian  Galeazzo 
Visconti.  The  latter  carried  off  the  precious 
books  to  Pavia,  where  he  added  them  to  his 
own  important  collection.  One  volume  has 
been  discovered  by  M.  de  Nolhac,  which  bears 
the  half-obliterated  name  of  Francesco  di  Car- 
rara. But  Pavia  was  in  turn  robbed  of  its 
treasures,  for  in  1499  the  French  seized  them 
and  transported  them  to  Blois,  whence  they 
have  found  their  way  to  Paris.  Some  twenty- 
six  volumes  in  the  National  Library  have  been 
satisfactorily  proven  actually  to  have  belonged 
to  Petrarch,  while  Rome  can  boast  of  but  six, 
and  Florence,  Venice,  Padua,  and  Milan  of  one 
each.  The  rest  may  either  have  been  destroyed, 
or  be  wanting  in  those  characteristic  traits  by 
which  they  could  be  identified. 

Petrarch's  habit  of  annotating  the  books  in 
which  he  was  most  interested l  gives  the  volumes 
which  have  come  down  to  us  a  certain  autobio- 
graphical value,  and  M.  de  Nolhac's  study  of 
these  extempore  and  informal  impressions  will 

1  Cf.  Fam.t  xxiv.,  i  (vol.  iii.,  p.  250). 


34  Petrarch 

fascinate  every  admirer  of  the  premier  human- 
iste.  We  cannot,  of  course,  infer  from  the  frag- 
ments of  the  library  which  can  now  be  identified 
what  the  original  collection  included,  but  a  care- 
ful study  of  his  works  and  of  the  extant  marginal 
glosses  has  led  M.  de  Nolhac  to  the  following 
conclusions.  The  library  doubtless  contained 
almost  all  the  great  Latin  poets  except  Lu- 
cretius. Petrarch  probably  knew  Tibullus 
only  from  an  anthology.  There  were  serious 
gaps  in  his  Latin  prose,  but  he  had  an  especially 
good  collection  of  the  Latin  historians.  Taci- 
tus, although  known  to  Boccaccio,  was  quite 
missing,  and  he  had  only  the  more  important 
portions  of  Quintilian's  Institutes,  which  he 
much  admired.  Seneca  was  nearly  complete, 
and  he  had  most  of  the  best-known  works  of 
Cicero,  although  the  letters  Ad  Familiar es  and 
a  number  of  the  Orations  were  wanting.  Of 
the  early  Christian  Fathers,  Ambrose,  Jerome, 
and  Augustine  were  prominent,  but  this  section 
of  his  library  contained  relatively  few  au- 
thors, while  the  mediaeval  writers  were  very 
scarce  indeed.  The  Letters  of  Abelard,  some 
works  of  Hugh  de  Saint  Victor,  Dante's  Corn- 
media,  and  the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio  were, 
we  know,  included.  Petrarch  could  not  read 
Greek,  but  he  possessed  Latin  versions  of  the 


Introductory  35 

Timceus  of  Plato,  the  Ethics  and  Politics,  at 
least,  of  Aristotle,  Josephus's  Histories,  and  the 
translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  that  he 
and  Boccaccio   had  had  made.      The  want  o 
Greek  literature  was  the  greatest  weakness  in 
his  education  ;  for,  having  no  means  of  com 
parison,  he  was  led  to  estimate  falsely  the  valu< 
of  the  Latin  classics. 

In  considering  the  powers  of  criticism  which 
Petrarch  exhibits  in  his  discussion  of  the  Latin 
language  and  literature,  the  study  of  which  was 
his  main  occupation  during  a  long  life,  we  must 
not  unconsciously  allow  ourselves  to  judge  him 
by  the  scientific  standard  of  to-day.  Before 
we  can  give  full  credit  to  his  genius  we  must 
recollect  the  incredible  ignorance  of  his  time. 
To  give  but  one  instance — an  eminent  profes- 
sor in  the  University  of  Bologna,  in  a  letter  to 
Petrarch,  gravely  ranked  Cicero  among  the 
poets,  and  assumed  that  Ennius  and  Statius 
were  contemporaries.1  A  free  fancy  was  the 
only  prerequisite  for  establishing  derivations. 
We  find  no  less  a  student  than  Dante  explicitly 
rejecting  a  correct  etymology  in  order  to  sub- 
stitute for  it  one  which  suited  him  better,2  when 

1  Fam.,  iv.,  15. 

8  //  Convito,  iv.,  16.  For  the  conceptions  of  grammar  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  see  Turot's  remarkable  study  in  the  Notices  et  Extraits 
des  MSS.,  vol.  22. 


36  Petrarch 

he  claims  that  nobile  is  derived  from  non  vile 
instead  of  from  nosco. 

In  order  to  understand  the  deep  signifi- 
cance of  Petrarch's  scholarship,  one  must  turn 
to  a  book  like  the  Etymologies  of  the  saintly 
Isidore  of  Seville,  whose  work  was  a  standard 
treatise  in  the  Middle  Ages.  To  choose  an 
example  or  two  at  random,  we  find  that  the 
lamb  (Latin,  agnus)  owes  its  name  to  the  fact 
that  "  it  recognises  \agnoscif\  its  mother  at 
a  greater  distance  than  other  animals,  so 
that  in  even  a  very  large  herd  it  immediately 
bleats  response  to  its  parent's  voice."  Equi 
(horses)  are  so  called  because  they  were  equal 
(fzquabantur)  when  hitched  to  a  chariot.1  It 
may  well  be  that  Petrarch  knew  but  little 
more  about  the  science  of  language  in  the 
modern  sense  of  the  word  than  Isidore  or  the 
author  of  the  Grtzcismus,  another  famous  text- 
book of  the  period,  but  his  spirit  is  the  spirit 
of  a  scholar.  Speculations  of  the  kind  above 
noted  seemed  to  him  fatuous  and  puerile, 
although  he  might  have  been  entirely  at  a  loss 
to  suggest  any  more  scientific  derivations  to 
replace  the  currently  accepted  ones.  He  dis- 
tinguished instinctively  between  fact  and  fancy, 
and  the  reader  will  discover  in  his  letters  much 

1  Migne,  Patrologia  Lat.,  vol.  82,  pp.  408,  426. 


Introductory  37 

sound  criticism  and  an  innate  sense  of  fitness 
and  proportion  quite  alien  to  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  no  respect,  indeed,  is  his  greatness  more 
apparent  than  in  his  general  rejection  of  the 
educational  ideals  of  his  times.  He  was  as 
little  in  sympathy  with  the  intellectual  predi- 
lections of  the  period  as  was  Voltaire  with  the 
contentions  of  Jansenist  and  Jesuit.  He  dis- 
liked dialectics,  the  most  esteemed  branch  of 
study  in  the  mediaeval  schools  ;  he  utterly  dis- 
regarded Scotus  and  Aquinas,  and  cared  not 
for  nominalism  or  realism,  preferring  to  derive 
his  religious  doctrines  from  the  Scriptures  and 
the  half-forgotten  church  Fathers,  his  partiality 
for  whom,  especially  for  Augustine  and  Am- 
brose, is  evident  from  his  numerous  references 
to  their  works.  His  neglect  of  the  Schoolmen 
is  equally  patent.  Lastly,  he  dared  to  assert 
that  Aristotle,  although  a  distinguished  scholar, 
was  not  superior  to  many  of  the  ancients,  and 
was  inferior  at  least  to  Plato.  He  ventured  to 
advance  the  opinion  that  not  only  was  Aris- 
totle's style  bad,  but  his  views  upon  many 
subjects  were  quite  worthless. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  power- 
ful fascination  which  Aristotle  exercised  over 
the  mediaeval  mind.  Only  the  Scriptures  and 
the  stately  compilations  of  the  civil  and  canon 


38  Petrarch 

law  were  classed  with  his  works.  His  know- 
ledge seemed  all-embracing,  and  his  dicta  were 
accepted  as  unquestionable.  He  was  "  the 
Philosopher  "  {philosopkus),  "  the  master,"  as 
Dante  calls  him,  "of  them  that  know."f  Nor 
is  his  supremacy  hard  to  understand.  When 
his  works  reached  Western  Europe,  at  the  end 
of  the  twelfth  and  the  opening  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  partly  through  the  Arabs  of 
Spain  and  partly  from  Constantinople,  men 
were  filled  with  an  eager,  undiscriminating 
desire  for  knowledge.  His  treatises  afforded 
both  an  acceptable  method  and  the  necessary 
data  for  interminable  dialectical  activity.  His 
Metaphysics,  Physics,  Ethics,  and  the  rest,  sup- 
plied abundant  material  upon  which  his  princi- 
ples of  logic  might  be  brought  to  bear  by  a 
disputatious  generation.  So  the  greatest  of 
inductive  philosophers  became  the  hero  of  a 
recklessly  deductive  age,  which  was  both  too 
indolent  and  too  respectful  of  authority  to 
add  to  or  correct  his  observations.  It  was 
assumed  that  nothing  remained  to  be  done 
except  to  understand,  expound,  and  comment 
upon  the  writings  of  a  genius  to  whom  all  the 
secrets  of  nature  and  of  man  had  been  re- 
vealed. Even  theology,  a  characteristic  crea- 
tion of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  greatly  affected, 


Introductory  39 

if  not  dominated,  by  Aristotle,  so  that  Luther's 
first  act  of  revolt  took  the  form  of  an  attack 
upon  "  that  accursed  heathen." 

Some  of  his  acquaintances  in  Venice  were 
accustomed,  during  their  conversations  to- 
gether, to  suggest  some  problem  of  the  Aristo- 
telians or  to  talk  about  animals  ;  Petrarch  says  : 

"  I  would  then  either  remain  silent  or  jest 
with  them  or  change  the  subject.  Some- 
times I  asked,  with  a  smile,  how  Aristotle 
could  have  known  that,  for  it  was  not  proven 
by  the  light  of  reason,  nor  could  it  be  tested 
by  experiment.  At  that  they  would  fall  silent, 
in  surprise  and  anger,  as  if  they  regarded  me 
as  a  blasphemer  who  asked  any  proof  beyond 
the  authority  of  Aristotle.  So  we  bid  fair  to  be 
no  longer  philosophers,  lovers  of  the  truth, 
but  Aristotelians,  or  rather  Pythagoreans,  re- 
viving the  absurd  custom  which  permits  us  to 
ask  no  question  except  whether  he  said  it. 
.  .  .  I  believe,  indeed,  that  Aristotle  was  a 
great  man  and  that  he  knew  much  ;  yet  he 
was  but  a  man,  and  therefore  something,  nay, 
many  things,  may  have  escaped  him.  I  will 
say  more.  ...  I  am  confident,  beyond  a 
doubt,  that  he  was  in  error  all  his  life,  not  only 
as  regards  small  matters,  where  a  mistake 
counts  for  little,  but  in  the  most  weighty  ques- 


40  Petrarch 

tions,  where  his  supreme  interests  were  in- 
volved. And  although  he  has  said  much  of 
happiness,  both  at  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  his  Ethics,  I  dare  assert,  let  my  critics  ex- 
claim as  they  may,  that  he  was  so  completely 
ignorant  of  true  happiness  that  the  opinions 
upon  this  matter  of  any  pious  old  woman,  or 
devout  fisherman,  shepherd,  or  farmer,  would, 
if  not  so  fine-spun,  be  more  to  the  point  than 
his."1 

Commonplace  as  these  reflections  seem  to 
us,  they  resound  in  the  history  of  culture  like 
a  decisive  battle  in  the  world's  annals.  Nor 
was  it  mere  pettishness  which  led  Petrarch  to 
speak  thus  of  the  supreme  authority  of  his 
age  :  the  instincts  and  training  which  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  bow  down  and  worship 
the  Stagirite,  implied  a  great  intellectual  revo- 
lution. Nowhere  is  the  broadening  effect  of 
his  intelligent  and  constant  reading  of  the  clas- 
sics more  apparent  than  in  his  estimate  of 
Aristotle's  relative  greatness.  He  was  far 
too  intimately  acquainted  with  the  history 
of  literature  to  feel  for  any  one  man  the  re- 
spect entertained  for  their  master  by  the 
Schoolmen. 

1  "  De  Sui  ipsius  et  Multorum  Ignorantia,"  Opera  (1581),  pp.  1042, 
1043. 


Introductory  41 

The  so-called  natural  science  of  his  day  was 
scornfully  put  aside  by  Petrarch  as  unworthy 
the  attention  of  a  man  of  culture.  Those 
fond  of  the  subject,  he  tells  us,  "  say  much  of 
beasts,  birds,  and  fishes,  discuss  how  many 
hairs  there  are  on  the  lion's  head  and  feathers 
in  the  hawk's  tail,  and  how  many  coils  the 
polypus  winds  about  a  wrecked  ship  ;  they  ex- 
patiate upon  the  generation  of  the  elephant 
and  its  biennial  offspring,  as  well  as  upon  the 
docility  and  intelligence  of  the  animal  and  its 
resemblance  to  human-kind.  They  tell  how  the 
phcenix  lives  two  or  three  centuries,  and  is 
then  consumed  by  an  aromatic  fire,  to  be  born 
again  from  its  ashes."  This  characteristic 
mediaeval  lore  he  rejects  as  false,  and  sensibly 
declares  that  the  accounts  of  such  wonders  as 
reach  his  part  of  the  world  relate  to  matters 
unfamiliar  to  those  who  describe  them.  Hence, 
such  stories  are  readily  invented  and  received 
by  reason  of  the  distance  from  the  places  where 
the  phenomena  are  said  to  occur.  "  Even  if 
all  these  things  were  true,"  he  characteristic- 
ally urges,  "  they  help  in  no  way  toward  a 
happy  life,  for  what  does  it  advantage  us  to 
be  familiar  with  the  nature  of  animals,  birds, 
fishes,  and  reptiles,  while  we  are  ignorant  of 
the  nature  of  the  race  of  man  to  which  we 


42  Petrarch 

belong,  and  do  not  know  or  care  whence  we 
come  or  whither  we  go  ?  "  * 

The  astrologers,  so  highly  esteemed  in  his 
day,  seemed  to  him  mere  charlatans,  who  were 
supported  by  the  credulity  of  those  who  were 
madly  curious  to  know  what  could  not  be 
known,  and  should  not  be  known  if  it  could. 
Cicero  and  Augustine  had  demonstrated  the 
futility  of  the  claims  made  by  the  mathematici, 
as  they  were  long  called,  and  Petrarch  ratified 
their  judgment ;  yet  so  general  was  the  be- 
lief in  their  powers  that  astrology  was  taught 
in  the  universities  of  Italy.2  Even  the  hard- 
headed  despot  of  Milan  once  deferred  a  mili- 
tary expedition  because  an  astrological  friend 
of  Petrarch's  declared  the  proposed  time  to 
be  unpropitious.  The  army  had,  however, 
scarcely  started,  with  the  approval  of  the  as- 
trologer, before  such  terrible  and  prolonged 
rains  set  in  that  only  the  personal  courage 
and  good  fortune  of  the  prince  prevented  a 
disaster.  When  Petrarch  inquired  of  his  friend 
how  he  made  so  grievous  a  miscalculation,  the 
astrologer  replied  that  it  was  especially  difficult 

1  Opera  (1581),  p.  1038.  Steele's  extracts  from  Bartholomew  Angli- 
cus,  in  Mediaeval  Lore  (Stock,  London),  give  a  good  idea  of  the  popu- 
lar science  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

4  Cf.  Rashdall,  Universities  of  Europe  in  the  Middle  Ages,  Ox- 
ford, 1895. 


\ 
Introductory  43 

to  forecast  the  weather.  He  received  the  tri- 
umphant retort :  "  It  is  easier,  then,  to  know 
what  is  going  to  happen  to  me  alone  or  to 
some  other  individual  several  years  hence, 
than  that  which  threatens  heaven  and  earth 
to-day  or  to-morrow  !  " i 

Petrarch's  good  sense  was  once  or  twice  tested 
to  the  utmost,  and  yet  he  refused  to  give  a 
supernatural  explanation  even  to  startling  per- 
sonal experiences,  such  as  still  occasionally  dis- 
turb the  precarious  adjustment  of  our  generally 
accepted  scheme  of  the  universe.  He  gives 
two  curious  instances  of  prophetic  visions  that 
came  true.  On  one  occasion,  he  had  left  the 
bedside  of  a  very  dear  friend,  whose  case  had 
been  pronounced  hopeless  by  the  physicians. 
Upon  his  falling  into  a  troubled  sleep  the  sick 
man  appeared  to  him  and  announced  that  he 
would  get  the  better  of  his  malady  if  only  he 
were  not  deserted.  There  was  one  already 
at  hand,  he  said,  who  might  save  him.  Here- 
upon Petrarch  awoke  to  find  one  of  the  doc- 
tors at  his  door,  who  had  come  to  comfort 
him  for  the  loss  of  his  friend.  He  thereupon 
compelled  the  reluctant  physician  to  return 
to  the  sick-room  :  they  immediately  perceived 
hopeful  signs  in  the  condition  of  the  patient, 

1  Sen.,  iii.,  I  ;   Opera  (1581),  pp.  768,  769. 


44  Petrarch 

who  was  in  due  time  completely  restored  to 
health. 

The  second  dream  that  Petrarch  narrates 
concerned  his  noble  friend,  Giacomo  of  Colonna, 
who  while  still  a  young  man  had  been  made 
Bishop  of  Lombez,  a  town  not  far  from  Tou- 
louse. Petrarch  was,  at  the  time  of  which  we 
are  speaking,  at  Parma,  separated  from  his 
friend,  as  he  points  out,  by  no  inconsiderable 
stretch  of  country. 

"  Vague  rumours  of  his  illness  had  reached 
me,  so  that,  swayed  alternately  by  hope  and 
fear,  I  was  eagerly  awaiting  more  definite  news. 
I  shudder  even  now  as  I  recall  it  all  ;  my  eye 
rests  upon  the  very  spot  where  I  saw  him  in 
the  quiet  of  the  night.  He  was  alone,  and 
crossed  the  brook  that  is  running  before  me 
through  my  garden.  I  hastened  to  meet  him, 
and  in  my  surprise  and  astonishment  I  over- 
whelmed him  with  questions — whence  he  came, 
whither  he  was  going,  why  he  was  in  such 
haste,  and  entirely  alone?  He  made  no  reply 
to  my  queries,  but,  smiling  as  was  his  wont  when 
he  spoke,  he  said  :  '  Do  you  remember  how  you 
were  troubled  by  the  storms  of  the  Pyrenees, 
when  you  once  spent  some  time  with  me  be- 
yond the  Garonne  ? 1  I  am  worn  out  by  them 

1  See  below,  p.  68. 


Introductory  45 

now,  and  have  left  them  never  to  return.  I 
go  to  Rome.'  While  saying  this  he  had  swiftly 
reached  the  limits  of  the  enclosure.  I  pressed 
him  to  permit  me  to  accompany  him,  but 
twice  he  gently  repulsed  me  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  finally,  with  a  strange  change  in  his 
face  and  voice,  said  :  '  Desist,  I  do  not  wish 
your  companionship  now.'  Then  I  fixed  my 
eyes  upon  him  and  recognised  the  bloodless 
pallor  of  death.  Overcome  by  fright  and  sor- 
row, I  cried  out,  so  that,  as  I  awoke  at  that 
very  moment,  I  heard  the  last  echoes  of  my 
own  scream.  I  marked  the  day  and  told  the 
whole  story  to  the  friends  who  were  within 
reach  and  wrote  about  it  to  those  absent. 
Twenty-five  days  later  the  announcement  of 
his  death  reached  me.  Upon  comparing  the 
dates,  I  discovered  that  he  had  appeared  to  me 
upon  the  same  day  upon  which  he  departed 
this  life.  His  remains  were  carried  to  Rome 
three  years  later — I,  however,  neither  suspected 
nor  anticipated  anything  of  the  kind  at  the 
time  of  my  dream.  His  spirit,  as  I  ardently 
hope,  triumphs  in  heaven,  to  which  it  has  re- 
turned. 

"  But  we  've  dreamed  enough,  let  us  awake  ! 
I  will  add  but  a  word.  It  was  not  because,  in 
a  period  of  anxiety,  first  my  friend  and  then 


46  Petrarch 

my  master  appeared  to  me  in  a  dream,  that  the 
one  recovered  and  the  other  died.  In  both 
cases  I  simply  seemed  to  behold  what,  in  the 
one  case,  I  dreaded  and,  in  the  other,  desired, 
and  fate  coincided  with  my  vision.  I  have,  there- 
fore, no  more  faith  in  dreams  than  Cicero,  who 
said  that  for  a  single  one  which  accidentally 
came  true  he  was  perplexed  by  a  thousand 
false  ones."  * 

Petrarch's  enlightenment  and  scholarship 
would,  however,  have  availed  the  world  but 
little,  had  he  not  possessed  at  the  same  time 
certain  quite  different  qualities  which  go  to 
make  up  the  successful  reformer.  History 
abundantly  proves  that  one  may  be  far  in  ad- 
vance of  one's  age  and  yet  leave  not  a  solitary 
disciple  behind.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  to 
cite  one  or  two  instances,  a  certain  Pierre  Du- 
bois  eloquently  advocated  the  higher  education 
of  women  and  their  instruction  in  medicine  and 
surgery,  the  study  of  the  modern  languages, 
the  marriage  of  the  clergy  and  the  secularisa- 
tion of  their  misused  property,  the  simplifica- 
tion of  judicial  procedure,  and  a  system  of 
international  arbitration.2  But  no  one,  so  far 

1  Fam.,  v.,  7. 

*  Cf.  De  Recuperatione  Terre  Sancte,  excellently  edited  by  Ch.-V. 
Langlois,  Paris,  1891. 


Introductory  47 

as  is  known,  gave  ear  to  his  suggestions,  how- 
ever salutary :  six  centuries  have  elapsed  and 
the  world  has  still  but  half  carried  out  his  pro- 
gramme. While  Petrarch  was  studying  law  at 
Bologna,  Marsiglio  of  Padua  issued  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  treatises  ever  produced  on 
government,  but,  although  the  circumstances  of 
its  publication  were  favourable  to  publicity,  its 
influence  was  imperceptible. 

We  have,  therefore,  but  half  explained  the 
secret  of  Petrarch's  influence  if  we  dwell  only 
upon  his  profound  insight  and  his  moral  and  '• 
intellectual  saneness.  He  might  well  have 
been  "  the  first  modern  "  and  yet  have  suffered 
the  fate  of  many  another  whom  we  know  to 
have  conceived  prophetic  ideals.  He  was  in 
advance  of  his  world,  it  is  true,  but  he  was  of 
it.  There  was  a  fundamental  sympathy  be- 
tween him  and  his  age.  He  was  mediaeval  as 
well  as  modern.  He  belonged  both  to  the 
present  and  the  future.  Like  Luther  and  Vol- 
taire, he  spoke  to  a  generation  that  was  eagerly 
and  expectantly  awaiting  its  leader,  and  ready 
to  obey  his  summons  when  it  should  come. 
Luther  was  a  monk  before  he  was  a  reformer. 
Had  he  been  less  certain  that  the  devil  dis- 
ported himself  in  the  box  of  hazel-nuts  that  he 
kept  on  his  desk,  he  might,  in  just  so  far,  have 


48  Petrarch 

exercised  a  less  potent  influence  over  a  super- 
stitious people.  Had  Voltaire  been  less  blas- 
phemous and  more  appreciative  of  the  true 
greatness  of  Hebrew  literature,  he  might  never 
have  advanced  the  cause  of  humanity. 

Of  Petrarch's  affinities  with  the  culture  of 
his  time  the  reader  may  form  his  own  judg- 
ment from  the  abundant  evidence  furnished  by 
the  letters.  In  one  important  respect  he  was 
ever  the  child  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  he  never 
freed  himself  from  the  monastic  theory  of  sal- 
vation, although  he  frequently  questioned  some 
of  its  implications. 

His  success  was  not,  however,  due  solely  to 
the  gospel  that  he  preached  and  its  fitness  for  his 
day  and  generation.  He  enjoyed,  in  addition 
to  these,  the  inestimable  advantage  of  personal 
popularity.  He  was  the  hero  of  his  age.  He 
was  courted,  as  he  says  with  perfect  truth,  by  the 
greatest  rulers  of  his  time,  who  omitted  no  in- 
ducement that  might  serve  to  draw  him  to  their 
capitals.  He  was  the  friend  of  successive  Popes 
and  of  the  far-away  Emperor  himself. .  The 
King  of  France  claimed  the  honour  of  his  pres- 
ence at  the  French  Court,  as  Frederick  the 
Great  sought  that  of  Voltaire.  Luther  and 
Erasmus  were  scarcely  more  widely  known 
than  he. 


Introductory  49 

It  was,  however,  with  men  of  letters  that 
his  influence  was  most  potent.  Among  his 
fellows  he  ruled  supreme.  His  relations  with 
Boccaccio,  the  greatest  of  his  Italian  contem- 
poraries, were  especially  sympathetic  and  affec- 
tionate, but  scarcely  less  cordial  was  his  esteem 
for  aspiring  young  Humanists  whose  names  are 
now  forgotten.  Of  their  feelings  for  him  we 
can  judge  from  the  few  letters  addressed  to 
him  that  have  come  down  to  us.  A  modest 
Florentine  scholar,  Francesco  Nelli,  who  had 
won  the  great  man's  love,  tells  us  of  the  rejoic- 
ing which  the  arrival  of  Petrarch's  messages 
occasioned  among  his  Florentine  friends. 

"  Your  circle,"  Nelli  writes,  "  assembled  to 
partake  of  an  elegant  repast.  .  .  .  Those 
who  live  and  rejoice  in  the  renown  of  your 
name  and  profess  your  revered  friendship 
(you  will  understand  me,  although  I  express 
myself  but  ill)  each  brought  forth  his  treasure 
and  refreshed  us  with  its  sweetness.  .  .  . 
Your  poem  was  eagerly  read  with  delight  and 
fraternal  good-will.  Then  we  joyously  dis- 
cussed your  letters,  by  means  of  which  you 
were  joined  to  each  of  us  by  a  lasting  bond  of 
friendship,  so  that  we  each  silently  proved  your 
affection  for  us  by  thus  producing  incontest- 
able evidence.  There  was  no  envy,  such  as  is 


50  Petrarch 

usually  aroused  by  commendation,  no  detrac- 
tion or  aspersions  ;  each  was  bent  upon  adding 
his  part  to  the  applause  aroused  by  your  elo- 
quence." 

As  the  reader  turns  to  the  letters  themselves, 
he  will  soon  discover  that,  in  spite  of  their  au- 
thor's assertions  to  the  contrary,  each  is  a  well- 
rounded  and  carefully  elaborated  Latin  essay, 
hardly  destined  to  perform  the  ordinary  func- 
tions of  a  letter.  While  he  believed  Cicero  to 
be  his  model,  he  allowed  himself,  whether  by 
some  natural  inclination  or  from  the  fact  that 
he  knew  them  earlier,  to  follow  Seneca's  epis- 
tles more  closely.  All  trivial  domestic  matters 
or  questions  of  business,  which  he  regarded  as 
beneath  his  own  dignity  and  that  of  the  Latin 
language,  were  relegated  to  a  separate  sheet, 
written  presumably  in  Italian,  which  was  much 
better  adapted  to  every-day  affairs  than  the 
intractable  classical  forms  which  he  strove  to 
imitate.2  But  none  of  these  contemned  post- 
scripts, interesting  as  they  would  probably  be 
to  us,  have  been  preserved,  and  we  have  not 

1  Lettres  de  F.  Nelli,  ed.  Cochin.  Paris,  1892,  p.  166. 

2  He  says  distinctly  in  one  letter  :  Ad  epistolge  tuae  finem  de  fa- 
miliaribus  curis  stilo  alio  et  seorsum  loquar,  ut  soleo.     Fam.,  xx.,  2 
(vol.  iii.,  p.  n).     Again  we  find  :  Quidquid  hodie  aeconomicum  mihi 
domus  attulit,  seorsum  altera  perleges  papyro.     Fam.,  xviii.,   7  (vol. 
ii.,  p.  486).    Cf.  below,  p.  230  sq. 


Introductory  51 

a  single  line  of  Italian  prose  from  Petrarch's 
pen.1 

Although  he  was  fond  of  saying  that  he  took 
no  pains  with  his  style  in  his  intercourse  with 
his  friends,  the  constant  traces  of  care  and  re- 
vision will  scarcely  escape  the  reader.  More- 
over, these  finished  communications  were  not 
to  be  treated  lightly.  "  I  desire,"  he  says,  "  that 
my  reader,  whoever  he  may  be,  should  think 
of  me  alone,  not  of  his  daughter's  wedding, 
his  mistress's  embraces,  the  wiles  of  his  enemy, 
his  engagements,  house,  lands,  or  money.  I 
want  him  to  pay  attention  to  me.  If  his  af- 
fairs are  pressing,  let  him  postpone  reading  the 
letter,  but  when  he  does  read,  let  him  throw 
aside  the  burden  of  business  and  family  cares, 
and  fix  his  mind  upon  the  matter  before  him. 
I  do  not  wish  him  to  carry  on  his  business 
and  attend  to  my  letter  at  the  same  time.  I 
will  not  have  him  gain  without  any  exertion 
what  has  not  been  produced  without  labour  on 
my  part."2 

The  conditions  were,  indeed,  very  untoward  in 
those  days  for  regular  correspondence  between 

1  There  is  one  possible  exception,  a  short  address  upon  the  death 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Milan,  delivered  in  1354  ;  given  by  Hortis, 
Scritli  Inediti,  pp.  335  sqq.  The  reader  will  find  a  discussion  of  the 
editing  of  the  letters  below,  p.  150  sqq. 

8  Fam.,  xiii.,  5  (vol.  ii.,  pp.  232,  233). 


52  Petrarch 

friends,  and  it  is  natural  that  the  modern  note, 
lightly  dashed  off  and  despatched  for  the  most 
trifling  sum,  with  almost  unfailing  security,  to 
any  part  of  the  globe,  should  have  had  no 
analogy  in  the  fourteenth  century.  There  was 
in  Petrarch's  time  no  regular  postal  system. 
Letters  were  intrusted  to  a  special  messenger, 
or  to  someone  going  in  the  proper  direction, 
pilgrim  or  merchant.  Sometimes  a  long  pe- 
riod might  elapse  without  any  opportunity 
of  forwarding  a  letter,  for  the  scarcity  of  mes- 
sengers was  as  familiar  an  evil  to  those  living 
in  a  great  city  like  Milan  as  to  the  solitary 
sojourner  in  the  wilderness.1  Once  Petrarch 
resorted  to  his  cook  as  a  messenger.  When 
once  under  way,  there  was  no  assurance  that 
the  letter  would  reach  its  destination.  Many 
are  Petrarch's  laments,  over  the  loss  of  his  own 
and  his  friends'  messages.  They  were  often 
intercepted  and  opened,  sometimes  apparently 
by  autograph-mongers ;  they  might  then  be 
returned  or  not  as  it  pleased  those  who  violated 
them.  Once,  as  he  was  returning  to  Padua, 
Petrarch  came  upon  two  letters  from  his  friend 
Nelli,  in  the  hands  of  certain  fellows — "  not 
bad  men  indeed,"  but  those  whom  he  was  as 
much  surprised  to  find  interested  in  such  things 

1  Fam.,  xx.,  6  (vol.  iii.,  p.  25). 


Introductory  53 

as  if  he  had  discovered  "  a  mole  amusing  itself 
with  a  mirror." 

At  last  Petrarch's  patience  was  quite  ex- 
hausted and  he  resolved  to  give  up  writing 
letters  altogether.  About  a  year  before  his 
death  he  imparted  his  purpose  to  Boccaccio,  as 
follows  : 

"  I  know  now  that  neither  of  two  long  letters 
that  I  wrote  to  you  have  reached  you.  But 
what  can  we  do  ? — nothing  but  submit.  We 
may  wax  indignant,  but  we  cannot  avenge  our- 
selves. A  most  insupportable  set  of  fellows 
has  appeared  in  northern  Italy,  who  nominally 
guard  the  passes,  but  are  really  the  bane  of 
messengers.  They  not  only  glance  over  the 
letters  that  they  open,  but  they  read  them  with 
the  utmost  curiosity.  They  may,  perhaps, 
have  for  an  excuse  the  orders  of  their  masters, 
who,  conscious  of  being  subject  to  every 
reproach  in  their  restless  careers  of  insolence, 
imagine  that  everyone  must  be  writing  about 
and  against  them  ;  hence  their  anxiety  to  know 
everything.  But  it  is  certainly  inexcusable, 
when  they  find  something  in  the  letters  that 
tickles  their  asinine  ears,  that  instead  of  de- 
taining the  messengers  while  they  take  time 
to  copy  the  contents,  as  they  used  to  do,  they 
should  now,  with  ever  increasing  audacity, 


54  Petrarch 

spare  their  fingers  the  fatigue,  and  order  the 
messengers  off  without  their  letters.  And, 
to  make  this  procedure  the  more  disgusting, 
those  who  carry  on  this  trade  are  complete 
ignoramuses,  suggesting  those  unfortunates 
who  possess  a  capacious  and  imperious  appe- 
tite together  with  a  weak  digestion,  which  keeps 
them  always  on  the  verge  of  illness.  I  find 
nothing  more  irritating  and  vexatious  than 
the  interference  of  these  scoundrels.  It  has 
often  kept  me  from  writing,  and  often  caused 
me  to  repent  after  I  had  written.  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  done  against  these  letter- 
thieves,  for  everything  is  upside  down,  and  the 
liberty  of  the  state  is  entirely  destroyed. 

"  To  this  obstacle  to  correspondence  I  may 
add  my  age,  my  flagging  interest  in  almost 
everything,  and  not  merely  satiety  of  writing 
but  an  actual  repugnance  to  it.  These  rea- 
sons taken  together  have  induced  me  to  give 
up  writing  to  you,  my  friend,  and  to  those  others 
with  whom  I  have  been  wont  to  correspond. 
I  utter  this  farewell,  not  so  much  that  these 
frivolous  letters  shall,  at  last,  cease  to  interfere, 
as  they  so  long  have  done,  with  more  serious 
work,  but  rather  to  prevent  my  writings  from 
falling  into  the  hands  of  these  paltry  wretches. 
I  shall,  in  this  way,  at  least  escape  their  inso- 


Introductory  55 

lence,  and  when  I  am  forced  to  write  to  you 
or  to  others  I  shall  write  to  be  understood  and 
not  to  please.1  I  remember  already  to  have 
promised,  in  a  letter  of  this  kind,  that  I  would 
thereafter  be  more  concise  in  my  correspond- 
ence, in  order  to  economise  the  brief  time 
which  remained  to  me.  But  I  have  not  been 
able  to  keep  this  engagement.  It  seems  to 
me  much  easier  to  remain  silent  altogether 
with  one's  friends  than  to  be  brief,  for  when 
one  has  once  begun,  the  desire  to  continue  the 
conversation  is  so  great  that  it  were  easier 
not  to  begin  than  to  check  the  flow."2 

If  the  letters  of  Erasmus  can,  as  Mr.  Froude 
suggested,  be  properly  regarded  as  the  most 
important  single  source  for  the  history  of 
the  Reformation,  those  of  Petrarch  must,  by 
reason  of  the  scantiness  of  other  material, 
be  looked  upon  as  indispensable  to  an  un- 
derstanding of  the  intellectual  life  of  Italy 
at  the  opening  of  the  Renaissance.  Still  his 
entire  correspondence  is  by  no  means  avail- 
able as  yet  in  even  a  tolerable  Latin  edition, 
and,  except  for  an  Italian  translation,  his  letters 
are  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  those  who  cannot 

1  Perhaps  with  a  hope  that  simple  notes  would  escape  the  fate  of 
his  more  polished  missives. 
*  Opera  (1581),  p.   546  sq. 


56  Petrarch 

read  them  in  the  original.1  The  editors  of  the 
present  volume  therefore  feel  no  hesitation  in 
offering  to  the  English-reading  public  a  version 
of  some  of  the  more  characteristic  examples  of 
a  correspondence  possessing  such  exceptional 
interest.  They  were  unfortunately  forced  to 
select,  since  the  letters  that  have  been  pre- 
served would,  if  reproduced  in  extenso,  fill  no 
less  than  eight  volumes  of  the  size  of  this. 
The  choice  has  been  determined  by  a  desire 
to  shed  all  possible  light  upon  the  historical 
r6le  of  Petrarch  and  upon  the  times  in  which 
he  lived.  Some  explanations  have  necessarily 
been  added  to  the  text,  but  a  constant  effort  has 
been  made  to  exclude  all  that  was  mere  erudi- 
tion or  interesting  only  to  the  special  student. 
The  letters  selected  have  nearly  always  been 
given  in  their  entirety  and  with  all  possible 
literalness,  for  condensation  would  inevitably 
have  interfered  with  the  true  impression  which 
the  original  produces,  even  if  it  served  at  times 
to  render  the  book  more  readable.  We  can  but 
hope  that  the  choice  that  we  have  made  will,  .so 
far  as  is  possible  in  so  brief  a  compass,  give  a 
correct  notion,  at  first  hand,  of  the  extraordi- 
nary character  with  whom  we  have  to  do. 

1  M.  Victor  Develay  has  turned  a  part  of  the  correspondence  into 
French,  with  conscientious  fidelity  to  the  original. 


I. 

BIOGRAPHICAL 


Vestro  de  grege  unus  fui  autem,  mortalis  homuncio. 

Epistola  ad  Posteros. 


Francesco  Petrarca  to  Posterity. 

Greeting. — It  is  possible  that  some  word  of  me 
may  have  come  to  you,  though  even  this  is  doubtful, 
since  an  insignificant  and  obscure  name  will  scarcely 
penetrate  far  in  either  time  or  space.  If,  however, 
you  should  have  heard  of  me,  you  may  desire  to 
know  what  manner  of  man  I  was,  or  what  was  the 
outcome  of  my  labours,  especially  those  of  which 
some  description  or,  at  any  rate,  the  bare  titles  may 
have  reached  you. 

To  begin  with  myself,  then,  the  utterances  of  men 
concerning  me  will  differ  widely,  since  in  passing 
judgment  almost  every  one  is  influenced  not  so 
much  by  truth  as  by  preference,  and  good  and  evil 
report  alike  know  no  bounds.  I  was,  in  truth,  a 
poor  mortal  like  yourself,  neither  very  exalted  in 
my  origin,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the  most 
humble  birth,  but  belonging,  as  Augustus  Caesar  says 
of  himself,  to  an  ancient  family.  As  to  my  disposi- 
tion, I  was  not  naturally  perverse  or  wanting  in 
modesty,  however  the  contagion  of  evil  associations 
may  have  corrupted  me.  My  youth  was  gone  before 
I  realised  it ;  I  was  carried  away  by  the  strength  of 
manhood ;  but  a  riper  age  brought  me  to  my  senses 
and  taught  me  by  experience  the  truth  I  had  long 
before  read  in  books,  that  youth  and  pleasure  are 

59 


60  Petrarch 

vanity — nay,  that  the  Author  of  all  ages  and  times 
permits  us  miserable  mortals,  puffed  up  with  empti- 
ness, thus  to  wander  about,  until  finally,  coming  to 
a  tardy  consciousness  of  our  sins,  we  shall  learn  to 
know  ourselves.  In  my  prime  I  was  blessed  with  a 
quick  and  active  body,  although  not  exceptionally 
strong;  and  while  I  do  not  lay  claim  to  remarkable 
personal  beauty,  I  was  comely  enough  in  my  best 
days.1  I  was  possessed  of  a  clear  complexion,  be- 
tween light  and  dark,  lively  eyes,  and  for  long 
years  a  keen  vision,  which  however  deserted  me, 
contrary  to  my  hopes,  after  I  reached  my  sixtieth 
birthday,  and  forced  me,  to  my  great  annoyance, 
to  resort  to  glasses.3  Although  I  had  previously 
enjoyed  perfect  health,  old  age  brought  with  it  the 
usual  array  of  discomforts. 

My  parents  were  honourable  folk,  Florentine  in 
their  origin,  of  medium  fortune,  or,  I  may  as  well 
admit  it,  in  a  condition  verging  upon  poverty. 
They  had  been  expelled  from  their  native  city,3  and 

1  None  of  the  portraits  of  Petrarch,  not  even  the  well-known  one 
in  a  codex  of  the  Laurentian  library,  are  authentic,  unless  it  be  the 
one  reproduced  at  the  beginning  of  this  volume.  See  page  vii. 

*  Eye-glasses  were  a  somewhat  new  invention  when  Petrarch  re- 
sorted to  them.  Poggendorf  (Geschichte  der  Physik,  pp.  93  sqq.}  cites 
the  first  reference  to  them  (1299),  which  reads  as  follows  :  "I  found 
myself  so  oppressed  by  age  that  without  the  so-called  eye-glasses, 
which  have  recently  been  discovered  as  a  godsend  to  poor  old  persons, 
I  could  neither  read  nor  write."  We  know  little  of  the  construction 
of  these  first  spectacles.  An  early  German  painting  (i5th  century),  in 
the  National  Gallery  at  London,  shows  a  saint  with  a  completely 
Developed  pince-nez. 

I  3  Petrarch's  father  and  Dante  were  banished  forever  from  Florence 
upon  the  same  day,  January  27,  1302. 


Biographical  61 

consequently  I  was  born  in  exile,  at  Arezzo,  in 
the  year  1304  of  this  latter  age  which  begins  with 
Christ's  birth,  July  the  twentieth,  on  a  Monday,  at 
dawn.  I  have  always  possessed  an  extreme  con- 
tempt for  wealth ;  not  that  riches  are  not  desirable 
in  themselves,  but  because  I  hate  the  anxiety  and 
care  which  are  invariably  associated  with  them.  I 
certainly  do  not  long  to  be  able  to  give  gorgeous 
banquets.  I  have,  on  the  contrary,  led  a  happier 
existence  with  plain  living  and  ordinary  fare  than 
all  the  followers  of  Apicius,  with  their  elaborate 
dainties.  So-called  convivia,  which  are  but  vulgar 
bouts,  sinning  against  sobriety  and  good  manners, 
have  always  been  repugnant  to  me.  I  have  ever 
felt  that  it  was  irksome  and  profitless  to  invite 
others  to  such  affairs,  and  not  less  so  to  be  bidden 
to  them  myself.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pleasure 
of  dining  with  one's  friends  is  so  great  that  nothing 
has  ever  given  me  more  delight  than  their  unex- 
pected arrival,  nor  have  I  ever  willingly  sat  down  to 
table  without  a  companion.  Nothing  displeases  me 
more  than  display,  for  not  only  is  it  bad  in  itself, 
and  opposed  to  humility,  but  it  is  troublesome  and 
distracting. 

I  struggled  in  my  younger  days  with  a  keen  but 
constant  and  pure  attachment,  and  would  have 
struggled  with  it  longer  had  not  the  sinking  flame 
been  extinguished  by  death — premature  and  bitter, 
but  salutary.1  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  say 

1  This  is  doubtless  one  of  the  two  or  three  obscure  references  to 
Laura,  in  Petrarch's  correspondence.  His  frigid  statement  of  the  case 
is  characteristic  of  Petrarch  the  Humanist  as  contrasted  with  Petrarch 


62  Petrarch 

that  I  had  always  been  entirely  free  from  irregular 
desires,  but  I  should  lie  if  I  did  so.  I  can,  how- 
ever, conscientiously  claim  that,  although  I  may 
have  been  carried  away  by  the  fire  of  youth  or  by 
my  ardent  temperament,  I  have  always  abhorred 
such  sins  from  the  depths  of  my  soul.  As  I  ap- 
proached the  age  of  forty,  while  my  powers  were 
unimpaired  and  my  passions  were  still  strong,  I  not 
only  abruptly  threw  off  my  bad  habits,  but  even  the 
very  recollection  of  them,  as  if  I  had  never  looked 
upon  a  woman.  This  I  mention  as  among  the 
greatest  of  my  blessings,  and  I  render  thanks  to  God, 
who  freed  me,  while  still  sound  and  vigorous,  from 
a  disgusting  slavery  which  had  always  been  hateful 
to  me.1  But  let  us  turn  to  other  matters. 

the  singer.  Compare  the  fervour  of  the  sonnets  with  the  original  of 
this  passage  : — Amore  acerrimo,  sed  unico  et  honesto,  in  adolescentia 
laboravi,  et  diutius  laborassem,  nisi  iam  tepescentem  ignem  mors 
acerba,  sed  utilis,  extinxisset. 

1  Petrarch,  although  a  churchman,  was  the  father  of  two  illegiti- 
mate children,  a  son,  Giovanni,  born  in  1337,  and  a  daughter, 
Francesca,  born,  probably  of  the  same  mother,  some  six  years  later. 
The  unfortunate  mother  was,  according  to  Petrarch's  own  story,  very 
harshly  treated  by  him.  This  obscure  liaison  seems  not  to  have 
afflicted  him  with  the  remorse  which  his  purer  attachment  for  Laura 
caused  him.  Only  the  latter  is  spoken  of,  and  that  at  great  length,  in 
his  imaginary  confession  to  St.  Augustine  (see  below,  p.  93  sqq.}.  The 
son  proved  an  idle  fellow  who  caused  his  father  a  world  of  trouble, 
even  entering  into  collusion  with  a  band  of  thievish  servants  to  rob 
him.  The  plague  cut  short  his  unpromising  career  in  his  twenty- 
fourth  year.  Petrarch  noted  in  his  copy  of  Virgil,  which  he  used  as  a 
family  record  :  "  Our  Giovanni  was  born  to  be  a  trial  and  burden  to 
me.  While  alive  he  tormented  me  with  perpetual  anxiety,  and  his 
death  has  wounded  me  deeply."  The  daughter  was  of  a  happier 
disposition.  She  married,  and  Petrarch  rejoiced  in  two  grandchil- 


Biographical  63 

I  have  taken  pride  in  others,  never  in  myself,  and 
however  insignificant  I  may  have  been,  I  have  al- 
ways been  still  less  important  in  my  own  judgment. 
My  anger  has  very  often  injured  myself,  but  never 
others.  I  have  always  been  most  desirous  of  honour- 
able friendships,  and  have  faithfully  cherished  them. 
I  make  this  boast  without  fear,  since  I  am  confident 
that  I  speak  truly.  While  I  am  very  prone  to  take 
offence,  I  am  equally  quick  to  forget  injuries,  and 
have  a  memory  tenacious  of  benefits.  In  my  familiar 
associations  with  kings  and  princes,  and  in  my 
friendship  with  noble  personages,  my  good  fortune 
has  been  such  as  to  excite  envy.  But  it  is  the  cruel 
fate  of  those  who  are  growing  old  that  they  can  com- 
monly only  weep  for  friends  who  have  passed  away. 
The  greatest  kings  of  this  age  have  loved  and 
courted  me.  They  may  know  why ;  I  certainly  do 
not.  With  some  of  them  I  was  on  such  terms  that 
they  seemed  in  a  certain  sense  my  guests  rather 
than  I  theirs ;  their  lofty  position  in  no  way  embar- 
rassing me,  but,  on  the  contrary,  bringing  with  it 
many  advantages.  I  fled,  however,  from  many  of 
those  to  whom  I  was  greatly  attached ;  and  such 
was  my  innate  longing  for  liberty,  that  I  studiously 

dren.  One  of  these,  the  little  Francesco,  was,  when  but  a  year  old, 
a  "  perfect  picture  "  of  his  illustrious  grandfather,  but  the  great  hopes 
for  the  child's  future  were  cut  short  by  its  early  death.  Petrarch  com- 
forts himself  with  the  thought  that  the  child  "has  gained  eternal 
happiness  without  effort,  and  by  his  departure  has  freed  me  from  a 
continual  source  of  solicitude."  Sen.,  x.,  4.  See  Fracassetti's  Italian 
translation  of  Petrarch's  letters,  Lettere  delle  Cose  Familiari,  ii., 
256 ;  Korting,  Petrarca's  Leben  und  Werke,  Leipzig,  1878,  pp. 
143  sqq. 


64  Petrarch 

avoided  those  whose  very  name  seemed  incompatible 
with  the  freedom  that  I  loved. 

I  possessed  a  well-balanced  rather  than  a  keen 
intellect,  one  prone  to  all  kinds  of  good  and  whole- 
some study,  but  especially  inclined  to  moral  philo- 
sophy and  the  art  of  poetry.  The  latter,  indeed, 
I  neglected  as  time  went  on,  and  took  delight  in 
sacred  literature.  Finding  in  that  a  hidden  sweetness 
which  I  had  once  esteemed  but  lightly,  I  came  to 
regard  the  works  of  the  poets  as  only  amenities. 
Among  the  many  subjects  which  interested  me,  I 
dwelt  especially  upon  antiquity,  for  our  own  age  has 
always  repelled  me,  so  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
love  of  those  dear  to  me,  I  should  have  preferred  to 
have  been  born  in  any  other  period  than  our  own. 
In  order  to  forget  my  own  time,  I  have  constantly 
striven  to  place  myself  in  spirit  in  other  ages,  and 
consequently  I  delighted  in  history;  not  that  the 
conflicting  statements  did  not  offend  me,  but  when 
in  doubt  I  accepted  what  appeared  to  me  most 
probable,  or  yielded  to  the  authority  of  the  writer. 

My  style,  as  many  claimed,  was  clear  and  forcible  ; 
but  to  me  it  seemed  weak  and  obscure.  In  ordi- 
nary conversation  with  friends,  or  with  those  about 
me,  I  never  gave  any  thought  to  my  language, 
and  I  have  always  wondered  that  Augustus  Cae- 
sar should  have  taken  such  pains  in  this  respect. 
When,  however,  the  subject  itself,  or  the  place  or 
listener,  seemed  to  demand  it,  I  gave  some  atten- 
tion to  style,  with  what  success  I  cannot  pretend  to 
say;  let  them  judge  in  whose  presence  I  spoke.  If 
only  I  have  lived  well,  it  matters  little  to  me  how 


Biographical  65 

I  talked.     Mere  elegance  of  language  can  produce 
at  best  but  an  empty  renown. 

My  life  up  to  the  present  has,  either  through  fate 
or  my  own  choice,  fallen  into  the  following  divisions. 
A  part  only  of  my  first  year  was  spent  at  Arezzo, 
where  I  first  saw  the  light.  The  six  following  years 
were,  owing  to  the  recall  of  my  mother  from  exile, 
spent  upon  my  father's  estate  at  Ancisa,  about  four- 
teen miles  above  Florence.  I  passed  my  eighth 
year  at  Pisa,1  the  ninth  and  following  years  in 
Farther  Gaul,  at  Avignon,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhone,  where  the  Roman  Pontiff  holds  and  has 
long  held  the  Church  of  Christ  in  shameful  exile. 
It  seemed  a  few  years  ago  as  if  Urban  V.  was  on  the 
point  of  restoring  the  Church  to  its  ancient  seat,  but 
it  is  clear  that  nothing  is  coming  of  this  effort,  and, 
what  is  to  me  the  worst  of  all,  the  Pope  seems  to 
have  repented  him  of  his  good  work,  for  failure 
came  while  he  was  still  living.  Had  he  lived  but  a 
little  longer,  he  would  certainly  have  learned  how  I 
regarded  his  retreat.8  My  pen  was  in  my  hand 
when  he  abruptly  surrendered  at  once  his  exalted 
office  and  his  life.  Unhappy  man,  who  might  have 
died  before  the  altar  of  Saint  Peter  and  in  his  own 

1  Petrarch's  father,  being  still  an  exile,  could  not  return  with  the 
family  to  Ancisa,  in  Florentine  territory,  but  joined  them  when  they 
moved  to  Pisa,  which  did  not  in  those  days  belong  to  Florence. 

9  Urban  V.  (1362-1370)  had  transferred  the  papal  court  back  to 
Rome  after  it  had  remained  for  sixty  years  in  France  and  Avignon, 
but  after  a  year  or  two  the  disorder  in  Italy,  as  well  as  his  own  longing 
and  that  of  his  cardinals  for  their  native  land  ..overcame  his  good  in- 
tentions and  he  returned  to  Avignon,  where  he  died  almost  imme- 
diately, in  December,  1370. 


66  Petrarch 

habitation !  Had  his  successors  remained  in  their 
capital  he  would  have  been  looked  upon  as  the  cause 
of  this  benign  change,  while,  had  they  left  Rome, 
his  virtue  would  have  been  all  the  more  conspicuous 
in  contrast  with  their  fault.1 

But  such  laments  are  somewhat  remote  from  my 
subject.  On  the  windy  banks  of  the  river  Rhone 
I  spent  my  boyhood,  guided  by  my  parents,  and 
then,  guided  by  my  own  fancies,  the  whole  of  my 
youth.  Yet  there  were  long  intervals  spent  else- 
where, for  I  first  passed  four  years  at  the  little 
town  of  Carpentras,  somewhat  to  the  east  of  Avi- 
gnon :  in  these  two  places  I  learned  as  much  of 
grammar,  logic,  and  rhetoric  as  my  age  permitted, 
or  rather,  as  much  as  it  is  customary  to  teach  in 
school :  how  little  that  is,  dear  reader,  thou  knowest. 
I  then  set  out  for  Montpellier  to  study  law,  and 
spent  four  years  there,  then  three  at  Bologna.  I 
heard  the  whole  body  of  the  civil  law,  and  would, 
as  many  thought,  have  distinguished  myself  later, 
had  I  but  continued  my  studies.  I  gave  up  the 
subject  altogether,  however,  so  soon  as  it  was  no 
longer  necessary  to  consult  the  wishes  of  my  parents.8 

1  Petrarch  had  not  only  exhorted  Urban  V.  to  return  to  Rome,  but 
had  previously  sent  metrical  epistles  to  his  predecessors,  Benedict  XII. 
and  Clement  VI.,  urging  them  to-  restore  the  papacy  to  its  ancient 
seat.  The  letters  which  Petrarch  wrote  to  his  friends  in  regard  to 
the  abominations  of  the  "Babylonish  Captivity"  form  a  separate 
collection  of  his  correspondence,  Epistola  sine  Titulo,  in  which  the 
names  of  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed  are  suppressed  for  fear  of 
compromising  them. 

s  The  news  of  the  death  of  Petrarch's  father  recalled  him  and  his 
brother  from  Bologna  in  April,  1326.  Cf.  Fam.,  iv.,  i. 


Biographical  67 

My  reason  was  that,  although  the  dignity  of  the 
law,  which  is  doubtless  very  great,  and  especially 
the  numerous  references  it  contains  to  Roman  an- 
tiquity, did  not  fail  to  delight  me,  I  felt  it  to  be 
habitually  degraded  by  those  who  practise  it.  It 
went  against  me  painfully  to  acquire  an  art  which 
I  would  not  practise  dishonestly,  and  could  hardly 
hope  to  exercise  otherwise.  Had  I  made  the  latter 
attempt,  my  scrupulousness  would  doubtless  have 
been  ascribed  to  simplicity. 

So  at  the  age  of  two  and  twenty '  I  returned  home. 
I  call  my  place  of  exile  home,  Avignon,  where  I 
had  been  since  childhood ;  for  habit  has  almost  the 
potency  of  nature  itself.  I  had  already  begun  to  be 
known  there,  and  my  friendship  was  sought  by 
prominent  men;  wherefore  I  cannot  say.  I  confess 
this  is  now  a  source  of  surprise  to  me,  although  it 
seemed  natural  enough  at  an  age  when  we  are  used 
to  regard  ourselves  as  worthy  of  the  highest  respect. 
I  was  courted  first  and  foremost  by  that  very  dis- 
tinguished and  noble  family,  the  Colonnesi,  who,  at 
that  period,  adorned  the  Roman  Curia  with  their 
presence.  However  it  might  be  now,  I  was  at  that 
time  certainly  quite  unworthy  of  the  esteem  in 
which  I  was  held  by  them.  I  was  especially 
honoured  by  the  incomparable  Giacomo  Colonna, 

1  It  seems  strange  that  at  twenty-two  Petrarch  should  already  have 
spent  some  seven  years  at  the  universities.  It  was  not,  however, 
unusual  then.  There  were  no  entrance  requirements,  and  the  stu- 
dents were  often  mere  boys.  Rashdall  places  the  age  of  freshmen  at 
thirteen  to  sixteen  years,  but  they  might  enter  still  younger.  See 
Universities  of  Europe  in  the  Middle  Ages,  vol.  ii. ,  p.  604. 


68  Petrarch 

then  Bishop  of  Lombez,1  whose  peer  I  know  not 
whether  I  have  ever  seen  or  ever  shall  see,  and  was 
taken  by  him  to  Gascony;  there  I  spent  such  a 
divine  summer  among  the  foot-hills  of  the  Pyrenees, 
in  happy  intercourse  with  my  master  and  the  mem- 
bers of  our  company,  that  I  can  never  recall  the 
experience  without  a  sigh  of  regret.2 

Returning  thence,  I  passed  many  years  in  the 
house  of  Giacomo's  brother,  Cardinal  Giovanni 
Colonna,  not  as  if  he  were  my  lord  and  master,  but 
rather  my  father,  or  better,  a  most  affectionate 
brother — nay,  it  was  as  if  I  were  in  my  own  home.' 
About  this  time,  a  youthful  desire  impelled  me  to 
visit  France  and  Germany,  While  I  invented  certain 
reasons  to  satisfy  my  elders  of  the  propriety  of  the 
journey,  the  real  explanation  was  a  great  inclination 
and  longing  to  see  new  sights.  I  first  visited  Paris, 
as  I  was  anxious  to  discover  what  was  true  and  what 
fabulous  in  the  accounts  I  had  heard  of  that  city.4 
On  my  return  from  this  journey  I  went  to  Rome,6 
which  I  had  since  my  infancy  ardently  desired  to 

1  Some  thirty  miles  southwest  of  Toulouse. 

8  It  was  on  this  occasion  that  Petrarch  formed  his  life-long  friend- 
ship with  "  Socrates,"  who  lived  at  Avignon,  and  with  "  Lselius,"  a 
Roman,  who  also  resided  at  Avignon  until  the  death  of  Cardinal 
Colonna,  in  1348.  To  these  two  a  great  many  of  his  letters  are 
addressed. 

3  Petrarch  was  a  commensal  chaplain  in  the  house  of  the  Cardinal, 
as  we  learn  from  the  Papal  document  granting  him  his  first  benefice, 
apud  De  Sade,  Mtmoires  sur  la  Vie  de  Pttrarque,  "  Pieces  justifica- 
tives,"  vol.  in.,  No.  15. 

*  Petrarch's  letters  relating  to  Paris  and  Cologne  are  given  below, 
Part  iv. 

5  Probably  some  three  years  after  the  journey  to  the  north. 


Biographical  69 

visit.  There  I  soon  came  to  venerate  Stephano,  the 
noble  head  of  the  family  of  the  Colonnesi,  like  some 
ancient  hero,  and  was  in  turn  treated  by  him  in 
every  respect  like  a  son.  The  love  and  good-will  of 
this  excellent  man  toward  me  remained  constant  to 
the  end  of  his  life,  and  lives  in  me  still,  nor  will  it 
cease  until  I  myself  pass  away. 

On  my  return,  since  I  experienced  a  deep-seated 
and  innate  repugnance  to  town  life,  especially  in 
that  disgusting  city  of  Avignon  which  I  heartily  ab- 
horred, I  sought  some  means  of  escape.  I  fortu- 
nately discovered,  about  fifteen  miles  from  Avignon, 
a  delightful  valley,  narrow  and  secluded,  called 
Vaucluse,  where  the  Sorgue,  the  prince  of  streams, 
takes  its  rise.  Captivated  by  the  charms  of  the  place, 
I  transferred  thither  myself  and  my  books.  Were 
I  to  describe  what  I  did  there  during  many  years, 
it  would  prove  a  long  story.  Indeed,  almost  every 
bit  of  writing  which  I  have  put  forth  was  either  ac- 
complished or  begun,  or  at  least  conceived,  there, 
and  my  undertakings  have  been  so  numerous  that 
they  still  continue  to  vex  and  weary  me.  My  mind, 
like  my  body,  is  characterised  by  a  certain  versatility 
and  readiness,  rather  than  by  strength,  so  that  many 
tasks  that  were  easy  of  conception  have  been  given 
up  by  reason  of  the  difficulty  of  their  execution. 
The  character  of  my  surroundings  suggested  the 
composition  of  a  sylvan  or  bucolic  song.  I  also 
dedicated  a  work  in  two  books  upon  The  Life  of  Soli- 
tude? to  Philip,  now  exalted  to  the  Cardinal-bishopric 

1  See  below,  p.  373  sq. 


70  Petrarch 

of  Sabina.  Although  always  a  great  man,  he  was, 
at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  only  the  humble 
Bishop  of  Cavaillon.1  He  is  the  only  one  of  my  old 
friends  who  is  still  left  to  me,  and  he  has  always 
loved  and  treated  me  not  as  a  bishop  (as  Ambrose 
did  Augustine),  but  as  a  brother. 

While  I  was  wandering  in  those  mountains  upon  a 
Friday  in  Holy  Week,  the  strong  desire  seized  me  to 
write  an  epic  in  an  heroic  strain,  taking  as  my  theme 
Scipio  Africanus  the  Great,  who  had,  strange  to  say, 
been  dear  to  me  from  my  childhood.  But  although  I 
began  the  execution  of  this  project  with  enthusiasm, 
I  straightway  abandoned  it,  owing  to  a  variety  of 
distractions.  The  poem  was,  however,  christened 
Africa,  from  the  name  of  its  hero,  and,  whether 
from  his  fortunes  or  mine,  it  did  not  fail  to  arouse 
the  interest  of  many  before  they  had  seen  it. 

While  leading  a  leisurely  existence  in  this  region, 
I  received,  remarkable  as  it  may  seem,  upon  one  and 
the  same  day,"  letters  both  from  the  Senate  at  Rome 
and  the  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Paris,  press- 
ing me  to  appear  in  Rome  and  Paris,  respectively,  to 
receive  the  poet's  crown  of  laurel.  In  my  youthful 
elation  I  convinced  myself  that  I  was  quite  worthy 
of  this  honour;  the  recognition  came  from  eminent 
judges,  and  I  accepted  their  verdict  rather  than  that 
of  my  own  better  judgment.  I  hesitated  for  a  time 
which  I  should  give  ear  to,  and  sent  a  letter  to 
Cardinal  Giovanni  Colonna,  of  whom  I  have  already 

1  The  castle  of  Cavaillon  is  close  by  the  valley  of  the  Sorgue. 
*  September  I,  1340,  when  Petrarch  was  thirty-six  years  old. 


Biographical  71 

spoken,  asking  his  opinion.  He  was  so  near  that, 
although  I  wrote  late  in  the  day,  I  received  his  reply 
before  the  third  hour  on  the  morrow.  I  followed 
his  advice,  and  recognised  the  claims  of  Rome  as 
superior  to  all  others.  My  acceptance  of  his  counsel 
is  shown  by  my  twofold  letter  to  him  on  that  oc- 
casion, which  I  still  keep.  I  set  off  accordingly; 
but  although,  after  the  fashion  of  youth,  I  was  a 
most  indulgent  judge  of  my  own  work,  I  still  blushed 
to  accept  in  my  own  case  the  verdict  even  of  such 
men  as  those  who  summoned  me,  despite  the  fact 
that  they  would  certainly  not  have  honoured  me  in 
this  way,  had  they  not  believed  me  worthy.1 

So  I  decided,  first  to  visit  Naples,  and  that  cel- 
ebrated king  and  philosopher,  Robert,  who  was  not 
more  distinguished  as  a  ruler  than  as  a  man  of  cul- 
ture.11 He  was,  indeed,  the  only  monarch  of  our  age 
who  was  the  friend  at  once  of  learning  and  of  virtue, 
and  I  trusted  that  he  might  correct  such  things  as  he 
found  to  criticise  in  my  work.  The  way  in  which 
he  received  and  welcomed  me  is  a  source  of  astonish- 
ment to  me  now,  and,  I  doubt  not,  to  the  reader 

1  The  invitations  to  Rome  and  Paris  to  receive  the  laurel  crown 
have  a  history,  as  the  reader  will  easily  infer.  See  below,  p.  100  sqq. 

'Robert  (who  died  in  1343)  was  the  grandson  of  that  Charles  of 
Anjou  (the  brother  of  St.  Louis)  who  had  been  called  in  by  the 
popes  to  succeed  the  house  of  Hohenstaufen  in  the  kingdom  of 
Naples  and  Sicily.  He  was  Petrarch's  sovereign  (Fam.,  iv.,  3),  for 
Avignon  belonged  to  him  as  Count  of  Provence,  until  sold  to  the 
popes  by  Robert's  successor  in  1348.  Robert  had  resided  at  Avi- 
gnon, 1318-1324.  A  letter  from  Petrarch  to  Robert,  dated  December 
26,  1338,  is  preserved,  as  well  as  a  second  one  (Pisa,  April  21,  1341), 
describing  his  coronation  at  Rome  :  Fam.,  iv.,  3,  7. 


72  Petrarch 

also,  if  he  happens  to  know  anything  of  the  matter. 
Having  learned  the  reason  of  my  coming,  the  King 
seemed  mightily  pleased.  He  was  gratified,  doubt- 
less, by  my  youthful  faith  in  him,  and  felt,  per- 
haps, that  he  shared  in  a  way  the  glory  of  my 
coronation,  since  I  had  chosen  him  from  all  others 
as  the  only  suitable  critic.  After  talking  over  a 
great  many  things,  I  showed  him  my  Africa,  which 
so  delighted  him  that^he  asked  that  it  might  be 
dedicated  to  him  in  consideration  of  a  handsome 
reward.1  This  was  a  request;  that  I  could  not  well 
refuse,  nor,  indeed,  would  I  have  wished  to  refuse 
it,  had  it  been  in  my  power.  He  then  fixed  a  day 
upon  which  we  could  consider  the  object  of  my 
visi£  This  6ccupied  us  from  noon  until  evening, 
and  the  time  proving  too  short,  on  account  of  the 
many  matters  which  arose  for  discussion,  we  passed 
the  two  following  days  in  the  same  manner.  Hav- 
ing thus  tested  my  poor  attainments  for  three  days, 
the  King  at  last  pronounced  me  worthy  of  the  laurel. 
He  offered  to  bestow  that  honour  upon  me  at 
Naples,  and  urged  me  to  consent  to  receive  it  there, 
but  my  veneration  for  Rome  prevailed  over  the  in- 
sistence of  even  so  great  a  monarch  as  Robert.  At 
length,  seeing  that  I  was  inflexible  in  my  purpose, 
he  sent  me  on  my  way  accompanied  by  royal  mes- 
sengers and  letters  to  the  Roman  Senate,  in  which 

1  The  Latin — ut  earn  (scil.  Africam)  sibi  inscribi  magno  pro  munere 
posceret — may  perhaps  mean  that  the  king  asked  that  the  book  be 
dedicated  to  him  as  a  great  favour.  If,  however,  Petrarch  was 
rewarded  for  the  attention,  he  was  only  one  of  the  first  to  enjoy  a 
source  of  revenue  which  was  well  known  to  later  Humanists. 


Biographical  73 

he  gave  enthusiastic  expression  to  his  flattering 
opinion  of  me.  This  royal  estimate  was,  indeed, 
quite  in  accord  with  that  of  many  others,  and  espe- 
cially with  my  own,  but  to-day  I  cannot  approve 
either  his  or  my  own  verdict.  In  his  case,  affection 
and  the  natural  partiality  to  youth  were  stronger 
than  his  devotion  to  truth. 

On  arriving  at  Rome,  I  continued,  in  spite  of  my 
unworthiness,  to  rely  upon  the  judgment  of  so 
eminent  a  critic,  and,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
Romans  who  were  present,  I  who  had  been  hitherto 
a  simple  student  received  the  laurel  crown.1  This 
occasion  is  described  elsewhere  in  my  letters,  both 
in  prose  and  verse.8  The  laurel,  however,  in  no  way 
increased  my  wisdom,  although  it  did  arouse  some 
jealousy — but  this  is  too  long  a  story  to  be  told 
here. 

On  leaving  Rome,  I  went  to  Parma,  and  spent 
some  time  with  the  members  of  the  house  of  Cor- 
reggio,  who,  while  they  were  most  kind  and  gener- 
ous towards  me,  agreed  but  ill  among  themselves. 
They  governed  Parma,  however,  in  a  way  unknown 
to  that  city  within  the  memory  of  man,  and  the 
like  of  which  it  will  hardly  again  enjoy  in  this 
present  age. 

I  was  conscious  of  the  honour  which  I  had  but 
just  received,  and  fearful  lest  it  might  seem  to  have 
been  granted  to  one  unworthy  of  the  distinction; 
consequently,  as  I  was  walking  one  day  in  the 

1  Upon  Easter  Sunday,  April  8,  1341. 
*  See  below,  p.  105  sq. 


74  Petrarch 

mountains,  and  chanced  to  cross  the  river  Enza  to  a 
place  called  Selva  Piana,  in  the  territory  of  Reggio, 
struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  spot,  I  began  to  write 
again  upon  the  Africa,  which  I  had  laid  aside.  In 
my  enthusiasm,  which  had  seemed  quite  dead,  ] 
wrote  some  lines  that  very  day,  and  some  each  day 
until  I  returned  to  Parma.  Here  I  happened  upon 
a  quiet  and  retired  house,  which  I  afterwards  bought, 
and  which  still  belongs  to  me.  I  continued  my  task 
with  such  ardour,  and  completed  the  work  in  so 
short  a  space  of  time,  that  I  cannot  but  marvel  now 
at  my  despatch.1  I  had  already  passed  my  thirty- 
fourth  year  when  I  returned  thence  to  the  Fountain 
of  the  Sorgue,  and  to  my  Transalpine  solitude.  I 
had  made  a  long  stay  both  in  Parma  and  Verona,* 
and  everywhere  I  had,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  been 
treated  with  much  greater  esteem  than  I  merited. 

Some  time  after  this,  my  growing  reputation  pro- 
cured for  me  the  good-will  of  a  most  excellent  man, 
Giacomo  the  Younger,  of  Carrara,  whose  equal  I  do 
not  know  among  the  rulers  of  his  time.  For  years 
he  wearied  me  with  messengers  and  letters  when  I 
was  beyond  the  Alps,  and  with  his  petitions  when- 
ever I  happened  to  be  in  Italy,  urging  me  to  accept 

1  The  great  epic  was  never  really  finished  (cf.  Fam.,  xiii.,  n),  and 
Petrarch  came  in  his  old  age  to  dislike  even  the  mention  of  it.  Cor- 
radini's  edition  is  the  best  we  have  of  the  poem.  An  analysis  of  the 
Africa  may  be  found  in  Korting,  op.  cit,,  654  sqq. 

8  Petrarch  returned  to  Vaucluse  in  1342,  when  he  was  toward 
thirty-eight  years  old.  There  is  an  air  of  Wahrheit  und  Dichtung 
noticeable  elsewhere  in  the  letter.  It  was,  for  example,  probably 
later,  in  1344,  on  a  second  visit  to  Parma,  that  he  bought  his  house, 
and  then  went  to  Verona,  where  he  found  the  letters  of  Cicero. 


Biographical  75 

his  friendship.  At  last,  although  I  anticipated  little 
satisfaction  from  the  venture,  I  determined  to  go  to 
him  and  see  what  this  insistence  on  the  part  of  a 
person  so  eminent,  and  at  the  same  time  a  stranger 
to  me,  might  really  mean.  I  appeared,  though 
tardily,  at  Padua,1  where  I  was  received  by  him  of 
illustrious  memory,  not  as  a  mortal,  but  as  the 
blessed  are  greeted  in  heaven — with  such  delight 
and  such  unspeakable  affection  and  esteem,  that  I 
cannot  adequately  describe  my  welcome  in  words, 
and  must,  therefore,  be  silent.  Among  other  things, 
learning  that  I  had  led  a  clerical  life  from  boyhood, 
he  had  me  made  a  canon  of  Padua,  in  order  to  bind 
me  the  closer  to  himself  and  his  city.  In  fine,  had 
his  life  been  spared,  I  should  have  found  there  an 
end  to  all  my  wanderings.  But  alas!  nothing  mor- 
tal is  enduring,  and  there  is  nothing  sweet  which 
does  not  presently  end  in  bitterness.  Scarcely  two 
years  was  he  spared  to  me,  to  his  country,  and  to  the 
world.  God,  who  had  given  him  to  us,  took  him 
again.3  Without  being  blinded  by  my  love  for  him, 
I  feel  that  neither  I,  nor  his  country,  nor  the  world 
was  worthy  of  him.  Although  his  son,  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  was  in  every  way  a  prudent  and  distin- 
guished man,  who,  following  his  father's  example, 
always  loved  and  honoured  me,  I  could  not  remain 
after  the  death  of  him  with  whom,  by  reason  espe- 
cially of  the  similarity  of  our  ages,  I  had  been  much 
more  closely  united. 

I  returned  to  Gaul,  not  so  much  from  a  desire  to 

1  1349- 

1  Giacomo  was  killed  by  his  nephew,  December,  1350. 


76  Petrarch 

see  again  what  I  had  already  beheld  a  thousand 
times,  as  from  the  hope,  common  to  the  afflicted,  of 
coming  to  terms  with  my  misfortunes  by  a  change 
of  scene.1 


The  preceding  brief  autobiography,  written 
at  the  close  of  his  life,2  does  not  extend  beyond 
Petrarch's  forty-seventh  year,  and  in  spite  of 
its  peculiar  interest  it  is  but  a  very  imperfect 
sketch,  which  must  be  supplemented  by  the 
abundant  data  scattered  through  the  corre- 
spondence. In  order  that  the  reader  may  ap- 
proach the  letters  with  a  fuller  understanding 
of  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  writ- 
ten, it  is  therefore  desirable  to  touch  upon  cer- 
tain points  which  Petrarch  neglected  in  his 
account  of  himself,  and  then  to  trace  his  life 
from  his  return  to  Vaucluse  in  1351,  the  last 
event  mentioned  in  the  Letter  to  Posterity,  to 
his  death,  twenty-three  years  later. 

Of  his  parents  he  tells  us  but  little.  His 
father  had,  before  his  exile,  held  a  responsible 
position  in  the  Florentine  Republic,  and  his 
readiness  of  speech  had  caused  him  to  be  chosen 
upon  more  than  one  occasion  to  perform  im- 

1  The  autobiography  breaks  off  abruptly  here  ;  we  know  not  why. 

*  The  fact  that  Petrarch  mentions  the  death  of  Urban  V.,  which 
occurred  in  December,  1370,  indicates  that  the  autobiography  was 
written  during  the  last  three  years  of  its  author's  life. 


Biographical  77 

portant  public  missions.  His  name,  Petracco, 
was  changed  by  his  son  to  Petrarca  ;  why,  we 
do  not  know.  It  has  been  suggested  that 
Francesco  invented  the  latter  as  more  rhythmi- 
cal, or  adopted  it  on  account  of  some  hidden 
symbolic  meaning,  as  four  centuries  later 
young  Arouet  mysteriously  chose  to  call  him- 
self Voltaire.  It  is  perhaps  safer  to  look  upon 
the  alteration  as  merely  an  instance  of  the 
Latinisation  of  proper  names,  which  was  quite 
natural  and  almost  necessary  at  a  time  when 
Latin  was  so  generally  employed. 

Petracco  plre  was  a  friend  of  Dante  while 
they  lived  in  Florence  together,  and  when  it 
pleased  the  citizens  of  that  most  beautiful  and 
most  famous  daughter  of  Rome  to  cast  them  out 
from  her  sweet  bosom,  and  they  were,  as  Dante 
tells  us,  borne  to  divers  ports  "  by  the  dry  wind 
that  blows  from  grievous  poverty,"1  the  bonds 
of  friendship  were  knit  the  closer,  for  a  com- 
munity of  misfortune  as  well  as  of  tastes  and 
interests  served  to  bring  them  together.  Pe- 
trarch's father  was,  however,  forced  by  the  care 
of  his  family  to  give  up  his  studies.  We  know 
nothing  of  his  literary  tastes,  except  that  he  was 
an  ardent  admirer  of  Cicero; and,  although  his 
interest  was  probably  legal  rather  than  literary, 

1  See  the  pathetic  passage  in  the  Convito,  i.,  ch.  3. 


78  Petrarch 

his  son  confidently  assumes  that,  had  he  been 
permitted  by  circumstances  to  continue  his 
intellectual  pursuits,  he  would  have  reached  a 
high  degree  of  scholarship.1  Almost  the  only 
anecdote  recorded  of  him  is  a  trifling  instance 
of  his  personal  vanity.  When  somewhat  past 
his  fiftieth  birthday,  he  was  one  day  horrified 
to  discover,  upon  looking  into  the  glass,  a 
single  hair  verging  upon  grey.  Amazed  at 
this  indication  of  premature  decay,  he  not  only 
filled  his  own  home  but  roused  the  whole 
neighbourhood  with  his  laments.  Petrarch 
adds,  with  an  air  of  conscious  virtue,  that 
his  own  hair  began  to  grow  grey  before  he 
reached  five  and  twenty.2 

The  only  other  kinsman  to  whom  we  need 
refer  is  Petrarch's  brother,  Gherardo,  who  was 
apparently  two  or  three  years  his  junior.  A 
considerable  number  of  the  letters  are  addressed 
to  him.  The  two  spent  much  of  their  early 
life  together,  but  Gherardo,  when  about  thirty- 
five  years  old,  turned  his  back  upon  the  world 
and  entered  a  Carthusian  monastery.  Some 
years  later  the  elder  brother  felicitated  him 
upon  his  escape  from  the  exacting  cares  of  a 
life  of  fashion :  he  no  longer  suffered  the 

1  Fam.,  xxi.,  15  (vol.  iii.,  p.  no). 
*  Fan*.,  vi.,  3  (vol.  i.,  p.  324). 


Biographical  79 

"  piratical  tortures  "  of  the  curling-iron,  and  his 
close-cropped  hair  left  eyes  and  ears  free  to 
perform  their  functions  ;  the  elaborate  costume 
of  the  fourteenth-century  dandy,  whose  scrupu- 
lous folds  were  liable  to  be  discomposed  by 
every  careless  movement,  had  been  exchanged 
for  a  simple  monastic  garment,  readily  donned 
or  laid  aside,  and  affording  its  wearer  no 
anxiety.  Petrarch  admits  that  he  is  himself  still 
held  in  bondage,  that  he  still  has  a  partiality  for 
good  clothes,  though  this  passion  grows  hope- 
fully less  from  day  to  day.  He  had,  however, 
worse  sins  to  reflect  upon  than  the  elaborate 
coiffures  and  tight  boots  of  their  frivolous 
days  at  Avignon.  "  What,"  he  asks,  for  ex- 
ample, "  have  trivial  verses,  filled  with  the  false 
and  offensive  praise  of  women,1  in  common  with 
songs  of  praise  and  holy  vigils  ? "  We  shall 
refer  later  to  these  letters  addressed  to  Ghe- 
rardo,  for  they  afford  a  convenient  illustra- 
tion of  Petrarch's  views  of  that  most  cherished 
of  mediaeval  ideals,  the  monastic  life.2 

Petrarch,  like  Erasmus  and  Voltaire,  had  no 
place  that  he  could  call  home,  unless  it  were 
the  hated  Avignon,  whither  he  was  taken  when 

1  Cantiuncube  inanes,  falsis  et  obsccenis  muliercularum  laudibus 
refertse. — Fatn.,  x.,  3  (vol.  ii.,  p.  73). 

2  See  below,  Part  VI. 


8o  Petrarch 

about  nine  years  old.  This  migration  to  Pro- 
vence, to  which  Avignon  then  belonged,  im- 
portant as  it  was  in  the  life  of  our  poet,  did 
not  involve  so  complete  a  separation  from 
Italian  influences  as  would  at  first  sight  ap- 
pear. The  boy  had  in  his  earliest  years  learned 
the  Tuscan  dialect,  which,  Dante  impatiently 
declares,  was  unreasonably  held  by  the  Floren- 
tines to  be  the  highest  form  of  Italian.1  There 
was  on  the  Rhone  a  considerable  Italian  colony, 
with  which  Petrarch's  family  associated,  and  at 
Carpentras,  not  far  from  Avignon,  whither  the 
family  moved  on  account  of  the  cheaper  living, 
the  little  Checco,  as  he  was  familiarly  called, 
had  an  Italian  schoolmaster  from  Prato. 
Moreover,  his  later  friends  and  patrons  of  the 
noble  Roman  house  of  Colonna  undoubtedly 
maintained  their  national  traditions,  in  spite  of 
the  growing  French  influences  at  the  papal 
court. 

At  school  (1315-19)  Petrarch  soon  dis- 
covered an  extraordinary  fondness  for  Latin. 
While  the  other  boys  were  still  struggling  with 
the  simple  y£sop,  he  was  poring  over  Cicero's 
works,  which  fascinated  him  with  their  sonorous 
periods  before  he  could  grasp  their  meaning.8 

1  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  lib.  i.,  cap.   13 
*  See  Sen.,  xv.,  I  (Opera,  946). 


Biographical  81 

His  old  schoolmaster,  Convennevole,  was  very 
proud  of  his  pupil,  and  singled  him  out  as  the 
most  illustrious  of  those  whom  he  had  instructed 
during  his  sixty  years  as  pedagogue. 

Petracco  was  anxious  to  provide  a  career 
for  his  son,  and  not  unnaturally  chose  for  him 
his  own  profession  of  the  law.  Like  so  many 
other  notable  literary  spirits  since  his  day, 
Petrarch  began  his  career  in  a  law  school,  first 
at  the  neighbouring  University  of  Montpellier, 
and  later  at  Bologna.  But  while  Schumann 
began  composing  symphonies  at  Heidelberg, 
and  intercalated  a  waltz  "here  and  there  be- 
tween Justinian's  Institutes  and  the  Pandects," 
Petrarch  appears  to  have  made  some  progress 
in  his  uncongenial  subject,  and  to  have  gained 
the  esteem  of  one  at  least  of  his  teachers.  Of 
his  four  years  at  Montpellier  we  know  prac- 
tically nothing.  The  boy  was  only  about 
nineteen  when  he  removed  to  Bologna,  the 
greatest  of  mediaeval  law  schools.  His  three 
years  here  were  pleasantly  spent  with  the  con- 
genial friends  he  made  among  his  fellow- 
students.  They  took  long  excursions  into  the 
country,  often  not  returning  until  late  at  night, 
but  such  was  the  happy  security  of  the  time 
that,  even  if  the  gates  were  closed,  they  had  no 
difficulty  in  getting  over  the  dilapidated  forti- 


82  Petrarch 

fications,  which  presented  no  very  formidable 
barrier  to  active  young  students.  It  was  dur- 
ing this  period  that  he  first  visited  Venice, 
then  at  the  height  of  her  glory. 

The  motives  that  induced  Petrarch  promptly 
to  give  up  the  law  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  his 
father's  death,  are  not  far  to  seek.  Some  of 
them  are  noted  in  his  Letter  to  Posterity. 
One  of  his  professors,  whom  in  later  life  he 
sharply  criticised  for  his  ignorance  of  classical 
philology,  accused  him,  in  turn,  of  cowardly 
desertion.  He  replied  that  it  was  never  wise 
to  oppose  nature,  who  had  made  him  a  devotee 
of  solitude,  not  of  the  courts  ;  and  while  he 
conceded  it  to  be  a  happy  circumstance  that  he 
had  spent  some  time  in  Bologna,  he  believed 
himself  to  have  been  equally  fortunate  in  leav- 
ing it  when  he  did.1  As  an  old  man,  however, 
he  judged  these  seven  years  at  the  universities 
to  have  been  "  not  so  much  spent,  as  totally 
wasted."  2 

Once  at  least  (in  1335)  Petrarch  put  his 
legal  knowledge  to  the  test,  by  acting  as  coun- 
sel for  the  Correggi  in  a  case  involving  the 
control  of  the  city  of  Parma.  The  merits  of 
the  case  need  not  occupy  us ;  Petrarch  be- 

1  Fam.,  iv. ,  16  (vol.  i.,  p.  246). 

2  Sen.,  xv.,  i  (Opera,  947). 


Biographical  83 

lieved  the  claims  of  his  client  to  be  just,  and 
he  assures  us  that  only  the  fairest  means  were 
employed  in  his  successful  defence  before  the 
papal  consistory.1  He  certainly  won  the 
friendship  of  Azzo  di  Correggio  ;  and  his  cor- 
dial relations  with  this  equivocal  person  afford 
the  first  example  of  the  sympathetic  intercourse 
which  he  maintained  throughout  his  life  with 
the  distinguished  despots  of  the  time. 

It  is  probable  that  Petrarch's  mother  soon 
followed  his  father  to  the  grave.  The  modest 
property  which  Petracco  had  accumulated  in 
exile  was  dishonestly  appropriated  by  the  ex- 
ecutors, and  the  brothers  were  left  to  shift  for 
themselves.  Petrarch  almost  immediately  took 
orders,  but  probably  did  not,  as  has  been  gen- 
erally supposed,  ever  become  a  priest.2  He 
had  to  face  the  same  problem  that  in  succeed- 
ing centuries  confronted  those  who  wished  to 
devote  themselves  to  literature.  At  a  time 
when  an  author  could  expect  no  remuneration 
for  his  work,  except  perhaps  for  dedications, 
he  might  secure  a  livelihood  by  putting  himself 
in  the  way  of  preferments  in  the  church,  or,  as 
was  the  custom  of  the  Humanists  of  the  fifteenth 

1  Fam.,  ix.,  5  (toward  the  end).     Cf.   Korting,  op,  cit.,  99  sqq. 

8  See  Pastor,  Geschichte  der  Papste,  vol.  i.,  p.  3,  n.  I,  who  asserts 
that  "  officium  quotidianum  celebrare,"  in  De  Otio  Religiosorum,  does 
not  refer  to  the  celebration  of  the  mass,  as  previous  writers  inferred. 


84  Petrarch 

century,  he  might  rely  upon  the  patronage  of 
some  great  prince  or  prelate.  Petrarch  en- 
joyed the  advantages  of  both  these  sources  of 
income.  He  was,  very  early  in  life,  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  gain  the  esteem  of  the  Colonnesi, 
the  most  influential  of  the  noble  Italian  fami- 
lies at  the  papal  court.  Giacomo,  the  youngest 
of  the  seven  sons  of  old  Stephano  Colonna, 
had  been  struck  by  Petrarch's  appearance  when 
they  were  students  together  at  Bologna,  and 
on  returning  to  Avignon  and  learning  of  Pe- 
trarch's situation  he  made  advances  which  led 
to  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  friendships 
which  the  poet  records.  With  his  aid  and  that 
of  his  eldest  brother,  Cardinal  Giovanni  Co- 
lonna, the  young  writer  gained  immediate  re- 
cognition, and  did  not  thereafter  want  for 
friends  and  admirers.  It  was  through  the 
influence  of  Cardinal  Colonna  that  he  received 
his  first  benefice,  in  1335. 

Although  Petrarch  had,  as  Dante  says  of  him- 
self, "  drunk  the  waters  of  the  Arno  before  he 
had  cut  his  teeth,"  fate  made  him,  like  Dante, 
a  citizen  of  the  world.1  His  life  was  inter- 
rupted by  frequently  recurring  journeys  and 
changes  of  residence.  Scarcely  two  years  had 

1  Nos  autem  cui  mundus  est   patria,   velut  piscibus  sequor. — De 
Vulgari  Eloquio,  lib.  i.,  cap.  6. 


Biographical  85 

elapsed  after  his  return  to  Avignon  before  an 
invitation  from  Giacomo  Colonna,  newly  ap- 
pointed Bishop  of  Lombez,  enabled  him  to 
visit  Toulouse  and  spend  a  "  celestial  summer  " 
within  sight  of  the  Pyrenees. 

But  before  we  trace  his  various  pilgrimages, 
a  word  must  be  said  of  the  curious  city  in 
which  he  and  several  of  his  most  intimate 
friends  spent  much  of  their  life.  Avignon, 
although  a  town  of  no  great  importance  when 
Petracco  first  brought  his  wife  and  family 
thither,  was  destined  to  become  one  of  the 
great  European  capitals.  Clement  V.,  a  Gas- 
con, who  had  been  chosen  pope  in  1305,  sum- 
moned the  cardinals  to  Lyons  to  celebrate  his 
coronation,  instead  of  going  himself  to  Rome. 
During  his  pontificate  he  held  his  court  at 
various  French  towns,  and  resided  for  a  time 
in  the  Dominican  cloister  at  Avignon.  He 
was  succeeded  by  the  energetic  old  French- 
man, John  XXII.  (1316-1334),  who  was  fol- 
lowed by  six  other  French  popes,  all  of  whom 
maintained  their  court  at  Avignon.  Although 
they  appear  to  have  been,  upon  the  whole, 
good  and  upright  men,  they  were  all  French- 
men, and  deliberately  chose  to  reside  in  a  city 
but  just  across  the  Rhone  from  France ;  they 
thus  inevitably  sacrificed  the  cosmopolitan 


86  Petrarch 

character  that  their  predecessors  had  enjoyed 
at  Rome.  Moreover,  the  college  of  cardinals 
became  largely  French,  so  that  the  curia  soon 
came  to  be  regarded  as  a  servile  exponent  of 
French  interests.  The  national  jealousy  in 
Germany  was  augmented  by  the  long  struggle 
between  the  popes  and  Louis  of  Bavaria,  while 
the  outbreak  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War  pro- 
duced in  England  a  revolt  against  the  claims 
not  only  of  "  French  popes,"  but  of  popes  in 
general.  An  added  explanation  of  the  ill-re- 
pute into  which  the  head  of  the  Church  fell  is 
to  be  found  in  the  extortions  of  the  papal 
treasury  ;  for  it  became  necessary  to  repair  in 
some  way  the  deficiency  caused  by  the  diminu- 
tion of  the  Italian  revenue,  and  to  meet  the 
ever-increasing  expenses  of  a  scandalously  lux- 
urious court.  The  most  loudly  decried  of  the 
financial  expedients  of  the  popes  owe  their 
origin,  or  at  least  their  outrageous  extension, 
to  this  period. 

Petrarch's  span  of  life  exactly  coincided  with 
the  exile  of  the  popes  from  Rome,  and  his 
"  fate  or  his  sins  "  made  him  a  most  unwilling 
citizen  of  their  new  home,  "  the  Babylon  of  the 
West."  He  never  tires  of  execrating  the  city, 
but  we  may  safely  assume  that  he  paints  too 
lurid  a  picture  of  its  condition  when  he  de- 


Biographical  87 

clares  that  it  was  "  filled  with  every  kind  of 
confusion,  the  horror  of  darkness  overspread- 
ing it,  and  contained  everything  fearful  which 
had  ever  existed  or  been  imagined  by  a  disor- 
dered mind."  Although  the  popes  were  build- 
ing a  magnificent  palace,  calling  a  Giotto  to  aid 
in  their  artistic  undertakings,  and  collecting  a 
large  library,1  Petrarch  describes  their  capital 
as  ua  hell  on  earth,"  and  no  longer  what  it 
was  in  his  earlier  days,  although  even  then  the 
most  foul  and  filthy  of  places.2  But  doubtless 
he  ow*ed  more  to  his  residence  in  the  "  windy 
city"  than  he  was  ready  to  admit.  He  was 
willing  to  share  in  the  good  things  at  the 
pope's  disposal,  so  long  as  no  duties  were  in- 
volved which  would  interfere  with  his  cher- 
ished freedom.  To  his  sojourn  in  this  great 
centre  of  international  intercourse  may  be  as- 
cribed, in  large  part,  his  wide  acquaintance  with 
men  of  all  nations,  as  well  as  the  profound  in- 
fluence which  he  exercised  over  his  contempo- 
raries. 

It  was  not  long  after  his  return  from  Bo- 
logna that  Petrarch  first  saw  his  Laura. 
Twenty-one  years  later  he  made  a  note  upon 

1  Described  by  M.  Faucon,  in  the  Bibliotheque  des  Ecoles  Fran* 
faises  d'Athtncs  et  de  Rome,  Fas.  43,  50. 
8  Ep.  sine  Titulo,  No.  7  ;  also  Sen.,  x.,  2. 


88  Petrarch 

a  fly-leaf  of  his  favourite  copy  of  Virgil,  in 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  record  his  be- 
reavements. Placed  apart  from  the  others,  in 
order  that  it  might  often  catch  his  eye,  it  reads 
as  follows  :  "  Laura,  who  was  distinguished  by 
her  own  virtues,  and  widely  celebrated  by  my 
songs,  first  appeared  to  my  eyes  in  my  early 
manhood,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1327,  upon 
the  sixth  day  of  April,  at  the  first  hour,  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Clara  at  Avignon  ;  in  the  same 
city,  in  the  same  month  of  April,  on  the  same 
sixth  day,  at  the  same  first  hour,  in  the  year 
1348,  that  light  was  taken  from  our  day,  while 
I  was  by  chance  at  Verona,  ignorant,  alas !  of 
my  fate.  The  unhappy  news  reached  me  at 
Parma,  in  a  letter  from  my  friend  Ludovico, 
on  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth  of  May,  of 
the  same  year.  Her  chaste  and  lovely  form 
was  laid  in  the  church  of  the  Franciscans, 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  upon  which  she 
died.  I  am  persuaded  that  her  soul  returned, 
as  Seneca  says  of  Scipio  Africanus,  to  the 
heaven  whence  it  came.  I  have  experienced 
a  certain  satisfaction  in  writing  this  bitter 
record  of  a  cruel  event,  especially  in  this  place 
where  it  will  often  come  under  my  eye,  for 
so  I  may  be  led  to  reflect  that  life  can 
afford  me  no  farther  pleasures  ;  and,  the  most 


Biographical  89 

serious  of  my  temptations  being  removed,  I 
may  be  admonished  by  the  frequent  study  of 
these  lines,  and  by  the  thought  of  my  vanish- 
ing years,  that  it  is  high  time  to  flee  from 
Babylon.  This,  with  God's  grace,  will  be 
easy,  as  I  frankly  and  manfully  consider  the 
needless  anxieties  of  the  past,  with  its  empty 
hopes  and  unforeseen  issue."1 

This  meagre  notice  contains  all  that  we 
really  know  of  the  woman  whose  name  is  as- 
sociated for  all  time  with  that  of  Francesco 
Petrarca.  While  she  is,  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  say,  the  theme  of  nearly  all  his  Italian 
lyrics,  little  or  no  reference  is  made  to  her  in 
the  Latin  works,  with  two  notable  exceptions, 
to  be  spoken  of  later.  In  the  vast  collection 
of  prose  letters  two  or  three  vague  allusions 
to  his  love  for  her  may  be  found.  Once  only 
is  Laura  mentioned  by  name, — in  a  letter  to 
Giacomo  Colonna,  who  had  begun  to  suspect 
that  the  much  besung  sweetheart  was  but  a 
play  upon  words — a  personification  of  the 
longed-for  poet's  laurel  (Laurea).  "  Would 
that  your  humorous  suggestion  were  true," 
Petrarch  replies ;  "  would  to  God  it  were  all 

1  See  the  facsimile  of  this  famous  entry  in  Geiger'sUumanismus,  p. 
44,  and  the  corrected  transcription  furnished  by  M.  de  Nolhac,  op. 
cit.t  pp.  407,  408. 


90  Petrarch 

a  pretence,  and  not  a  madness  ! "  From  none 
of  these  sources  do  we  learn  anything  of  the 
lady  herself.  Many  ingenious  theories  have 
been  based  upon  the  descriptions  in  the  Canzo- 
niere,  which,  though  often  sufficiently  detailed, 
are  however  poetic,  allegorical,  and  conflict- 
ing. The  futility  of  such  deductions  can  be 
made  clear  by  a  single  example.  Upon  no 
other  topic  does  the  poet  dwell  with  more  evi- 
dent pleasure,  or  more  varied  detail,  than  the 
eyes  of  his  mistress  ;  yet  it  cannot  be  deter- 
mined whether  these  were  blue  or  dark.2 

1  Fam.,  ii.,  9  (vol.  i.,  p.  124). 

8  Many  attempts  have  been  made  to  establish  some  theory  of  Laura's 
life  ;  the  most  plausible,  by  reason  of  the  documentary  evidence  which 
he  adduces,  is  that  given  in  the  eighteenth  century  by  De  Sade,  in  his 
well-known  Memoir es pour  la  Vie  de  Pe'trarque  (vol.  i.,  pp.  in  sqq., 
and  appendix  ;  also  Pieces  Justificative*,  at  the  end  of  vol.  iii.,  con- 
taining Laura  di  Noves's  marriage  contract,  etc.).  Even  if  the  docu- 
ments were  not  forged  or  modified  by  the  lawyers  of  Avignon,  in 
view  of  De  Sade's  asserted  descent  from  Laura,  and  even  if,  as  is  not 
certain,  they  refer  at  all  to  Petrarch's  Laura,  we  learn  little  or  noth- 
ing from  them.  It  may  be  inferred  from  the  Canzoniere  that  Laura 
belonged  to  a  good  family,  and  almost  everyone  (except  Geiger) 
agrees,  nowadays,  that  there  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  she 
was  married,  since  the  freedom  she  appears  to  have  enjoyed  and  the 
ornaments  she  wore,  as  well  as  Petrarch's  use  of  the  word  Mulier,  all 
seem  to  render  the  assumption  a  natural  one.  Any  other  view  would 
indeed  be  out  of  harmony  with  the  habits  of  an  Italian  lover  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  reader  who  wishes  to  pursue  a  somewhat 
fruitless  line  of  research  may  compare  the  views  of  De  Sade  with 
those  of  Geiger,  Petrarka,  pp.  211  sqq.,  and  Korting,  op.  cit.,  pp.  687 
sqq.,  and  may  proceed  from  the  references  there  given  to  the  sources 
themselves,  such  as  they  are. 


Biographical  91 

While  it  must,  therefore,  be  acknowledged 
that  attempts  to  learn  more  of  the  object  of  Pe- 
trarch's devotion  have  proved  unavailing,  it  is 
possible,  from  the  material  at  our  disposal,  to 
study  satisfactorily  and  profitably  the  poet's 
attitude  toward  one  great  preoccupation  of 
humanity,  the  love  of  woman.  The  genuine- 
ness of  the  passion  that  fills  the  sonnets,  no 
one  who  reads  the  Latin  works  can  doubt,  al- 
though it  is  touched  upon  in  only  a  very  few 
instances.  Its  reality  is  attested  by  two  pas- 
sages of  considerable  length,  which  also  serve 
to  explain  the  conflict  of  emotions  depicted  in 
the  Italian  lyrics.  One  of  these,  a  Latin  met- 
rical epistle  to  Giacomo  Colonna,  we  may  neg- 
lect1; the  other  bit  of  self-analysis  it  behooves 
us  to  examine,  somewhat  carefully,  since  it  casts 
a  flood  of  light,  not  only  upon  the  extraordi- 
nary man  with  whom  we  are  dealing,  but  upon 
a  fundamental  contrast  between  mediaeval  and 
modern  thought.2 

Petrarch  was,  as  we  have  seen,  engaged  in 
a  lifelong  struggle  to  reconcile  the  opposing 

1  Ep.  Poet.  Laf.,  i.,  7,  lines  38  sqq.     A  German  version  of  these 
will  be  found  in  Korting,  op.  cit. ,  pp.  689  sqq. 

2  The  passage  here  referred  to  is  in  the  third  book  of  the  Confes- 
sions (Suum  Secretum),  Opera,  pp.  352  sqq.     Those  portions  which 
relate  to  his  love  for  Laura  have  been  translated  into  German  by 
Geiger,  Petrarka,  231  sqq.,  and  summarised  by  Korting,  op.  cit.t 
pp.  639  sqq.     The  whole  work  is  translated  by  Develay  into  French. 


92  Petrarch 

ideals,  both  moral  and  intellectual,  toward  which 
he  felt  himself  drawn.  During  his  best  years 
the  most  terrible  of  his  inward  conflicts  was 
that  between  the  monk  and  the  self-respecting 
lover;  between  the  mediaeval,  ecclesiastical,  and 
the  modern,  secular,  conception  of  love.  By  the 
ecclesiastical,  or  monkish,  conception,  we  mean 
the  belief  in  the  inherent  sinfulness  of  love, 
regardless  of  the  relations  that  may  exist  be- 
tween the  lover  and  the  object  of  his  affection. 
This  belief  was,  of  course,  part  of  a  complex 
theological  system,  which  owes  its  formulation, 
in  large  measure,  to  Petrarch's  spiritual  guide, 
St.  Augustine.1  A  great  deal  of  the  unnatu- 
ral and  often  indecent  twaddle  about  women 
which  fills  the  theological  works  of  the  Middle 
Ages  may  be  traced  more  or  less  directly  to 
him.  It  was  woman  who  brought  sin  into  the 
world  in  the  beginning ;  it  is  she  who  is  re- 
sponsible for  its  propagation  ever  since.  Man, 
it  is  assumed,  would  be  a  pure,  God-fearing, 
well-nigh  angelic  being  were  it  not  for  the  per- 
verse seductions  of  the  other  sex.  The  most 
scandalous  tales  were  not  considered  out  of 
place  by  the  preachers  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 

1  Peter  Lombard  reproduces,  in  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century, 
much  of  Augustine's  reasoning,  in  his  Sentences,  a  work  destined 
to  be  the  standard  theological  manual  for  generations  to  follow. 


Biographical  93 

tury,  to  illustrate  the  diabolical  origin  of  wo- 
man's charms  and  the  disastrous  effects  of  the 
only  kind  of  love  of  which  a  Jacques  de  Vitry 
or  the  retired  inquisitor,  Stephen  of  Bourbon, 
could  form  a  conception.1 

In  order  to  discuss  the  matter  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, Petrarch  chose  the  form  of  an  imaginary 
dialogue,  His  Secret,  between  himself  and  his 
favourite  ghostly  adviser,  St.  Augustine ;  and 
a  most  extraordinary  bit  of  modern  introspec- 
tive and  psychological  acumen  it  is. 

In  this  dialogue,  of  which  only  the  most 
meagre  description  can  be  given  here,  Pe- 
trarch defends,  with  refreshing  earnestness, 
the  higher  conception  of  love ;  but  his  re- 
spect for  Augustine,  who  vigorously  asserts 
the  debasing  nature  of  the  passion,  is  too  great 
to  permit  him  ultimately  to  reject  the  monkish 
notions.  Much  he  freely  confesses  to  the 
Bishop ;  much  is  extorted  from  him  by  a 
clever  process  of  cross-questioning.  This  love 
for  a  woman,  together  with  his  longing  for 
fame, 2  Augustine  declares  to  be  the  poet's 
most  conspicuous  failings,  which  serve  to  bar 

1  Cf.   Anecdotes  historiques  tire's  du   recueil  ine'dit  d"£tienne  de 
Bourbon,  publics  pour  la  Socitt/  de  VHistoire  de  France  par  Leroy  de 
la  Marche,  1867.     Professor  Crane,  of  Cornell,  has  edited  the  Ex- 
empla  of  Jacques  de  Vitry  f or  the  Folk-Lore  Society,  London,  1890. 

2  This  subject  will  be  considered  later.     See  below,  Part  VI. 


94  Petrarch 

his  way  to  a  higher  life.  Upon  Augustine's 
expressing  his  astonishment  that  so  superior 
a  mind  should  languish  for  so  many  years  in 
the  shameful  bonds  of  love,  Francesco  passion- 
ately declares  that  it  is  the  soul,  the  innate 
celestial  goodness,  that  he  loves  and  admires ; 
that  he  owes  all  to  her,  who  has  preserved 
him  from  sin  and  stimulated  him  to  develop 
his  greatest  powers.1  These  arguments  are, 
however,  easily  met.  The  poet  is  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge that  his  life  has  shown  only  degen- 
eration since  he  first  saw  Laura ;  it  was  her 
virtue,  not  his,  which  maintained  a  purely  pla- 
tonic  relation  between  them.  His  confessor 
points  out  that  if  he  looks  in  the  glass  he  can- 
not fail  to  see  how  the  fire  of  passion  and  the 
loss  of  sleep  have  made  him  old  before  his 
time.  However,  he  must  not  despair  ;  let  him 
travel,  that  may  furnish  a  remedy.  But  Pe- 
trarch has  already  vainly  fled  from  temptation. 
Then  let  him  meditate  upon  the  infirmity  of 
the  body,  and  the  shortness  of  life.  "  Think 
shame  of  yourself,"  his  mentor  exclaims,  "  that 

1  Cf.  the  lines  :— 

Onde  s'  alcun  bel  frutto 
Nasce  di  me,  da  voi  vien  prima  il  seme, 
lo  per  me  son  quasi  un  terrene  asciutto, 
Colto  da  voi  ;  e'  1  pregio  e  vostro  in  tutto — 
in  the  canzone  beginning,  Perche  la  vita. 


Biographical  95 

you  are  pointed  at,  and  have  become  a  subject 
of  gossip  with  the  common  herd  !  Think  how 
ill  your  morals  correspond  with  your  profes- 
sion ;  how  this  passion  has  injured  you  in  soul, 
body,  and  estate ;  how  much  you  have  need- 
lessly suffered  on  its  account ;  how  often  you 
have  been  deluded,  despised,  and  neglected  ! 
Think  how  proud  and  distant  your  mistress 
has  always  shown  herself  toward  you,  how  you 
have  made  her  famous  and  yet  have  sacrificed 
yourself,  solicitous  for  her  good  name  when 
she  spent  no  thought  upon  your  welfare ! 
Separated  from  God  by  this  earthly  love,  you 
have  subjected  yourself  to  a  thousand  miseries. 
Consider  the  useful  and  honourable  tasks  that 
you  have  so  long  neglected,  the  many  incom- 
pleted  works  that  lie  before  you  and  that  de- 
mand your  whole  energy,  not  merely  the  odd 
moments  which  your  passion  leaves  free." 
"  Few  indeed  there  be,"  Augustine  character- 
istically remarks,  "  who,  having  once  imbibed 
the  sweet  passion  of  desire,  manfully  endeavour 
to  grasp  the  truly  foul  character  of  woman's 
person."  Consequently  they  easily  relapse 
with  every  new  temptation.  If  the  poor  victim 

1  For  Petrarch's  views  of  marriage  see  Fam.,  xxii.,  i,  as  well  as 
several  unworthy  dialogues  in  De  Remediis  Utriusque  Fortunes,  e.  g. , 
i.,  45-47  ;  ii.,  18,  20,  22. 


96  Petrarch 

would  be  free,  he  must  banish  the  past  from 
his  thoughts ;  no  day  or  night  must  elapse 
without  tearful  prayers  which  may,  perchance, 
at  last  bring  divine  relief. 

It  is  only  by  remembering  the  general  con- 
demnation of  the  love  of  woman  among  the 
ecclesiastical  class,  which  was,  up  to  Petrarch's 
time,  nearly  synonymous  with  the  literary 
class,  that  we  can  understand  the  general  form 
which  the  discussion  takes  in  the  dialogue  just 
outlined.  It  is  his  pure  affection  for  a  pure 
woman  that  fills  Petrarch  with  apprehension. 
He  studiously  neglects  all  other  considera- 
tions, however  important.  One  possible  vague 
reference  to  his  connection  with  the  church 
occurs l ;  but  there  is  none  at  all  to  the  fact 
that  the  object  of  his  devotion  was,  as  we 
may  assume,  a  married  woman.  If  Laura  was 
unmarried,  the  arguments  against  the  attach- 
ment become  still  more  unnatural,  as  measured 
by  a  modern  or  secular  standard.  Of  that 
liaison  which  resulted  in  two  illegitimate  child- 
ren no  notice  is  taken,  although  it  would 
seem  a  natural  subject  for  criticism  upon  the 
part  of  a  confessor  like  Augustine.  The  dia- 
logue is  therefore  a  discussion  of  love  at  its 
best.  The  arguments  which  Petrarch  puts  in 

1  Cogita  quantum  professio  tua  discordet  a  moribus. — Opera,  p.  363. 


Biographical  97 

the  mouth  of  St.  Augustine  are  mainly  conven- 
tional and  monastic,  with  some  suggestions  of 
the  interference  with  work  which  a  literary 
bachelor  would  be  likely  to  apprehend.1  The 
defence,  on  the  other  hand,  is  purely  modern, 
—modern  enough  fully  to  grasp,  and  even  de- 
fend against  the  perversions  of  monasticism 
and  the  current  theological  speculation,  one  of 
the  noblest  of  man's  attributes.  But  Petrarch 
was  too  thoroughly  conservative  in  everything 
touching  religion  to  reject  a  view  of  love  so 
systematically  inculcated  by  the  church. 

Turning  again  to  the  course  of  Petrarch's  life, 
we  find  him  undertaking  his  first  long  journey 
in  1333.  He  visited  Paris,  the  Netherlands, 
and  the  Rhine,  and  described  his  experiences 
in  two  charming  letters  to  his  friend,  Cardinal 
Colonna,  who  probably  supplied  him  with  the 
means  necessary  for  the  expedition.  The 
poet  exhibited  the  same  love  of  travel  for 
travel's  sake  that  was  characteristic  of  his 
countrymen  from  Marco  Polo  to  Columbus, 
but  unfortunately  the  letters  describing  his 
impressions  of  foreign  lands  are  relatively 
few.2 

1  Magnae  corporis  magnae  animi  vires  sunt,  quse  simul  et  litteris 
sufficiant  etuxori. — Fam.,  xx.,  4  (vol.  iii.,  p.  21). 

2  Two  or  three  examples  of  such  descriptions  will  be  found  below, 
Part.  IV. 

7 


98  Petrarch 

Three  years  after  the  journey  to  the  north 
Petrarch  first  visited  Rome.  Both  as  a  Hu- 
manist and  as  a  mediaeval  Christian  he  had 
longed  to  behold  that  holy  city,  "  which  never 
had  and  never  would  have  an  equal."  It  was 
there  that  Scipio  Africanus,  the  hero  of  his  epic, 
had  dwelt,  and  there,  too,  was  the  resting-place 
of  innumerable  other  men  whose  names  would 
never  die.  He  might  also,  he  hoped,  wander 
among  the  tombs  of  the  saints,  and  gaze  upon 
the  spots  that  had  been  hallowed  by  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Apostles.1  Petrarch  was  much 
too  ardent  and  sincere  a  Catholic  to  allow 
Brutus  and  Cato  to  crowd  out  Peter  and  Paul. 
Indeed  there  was  no  break,  in  his  mind,  between 
the  history  of  pagan  and  Christian  Rome.  It 
was  to  him,  as  it  had  been  to  Dante,  a  single 
divine  epic  :  "  When  David  was  born,  Rome 
was  born  ;  then  it  was  that  ^neas  came  from 
Troy  to  Italy,  which  was  the  origin  of  the 
most  noble  Roman  city,  even  as  the  written 
word  bears  witness.  Evident  enough,  there- 
fore, is  the  divine  election  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  by  the  birth  of  the  holy  city,  which 
was  contemporaneous  with  the  root  of  the  race 
from  which  Mary  sprang."  * 

1  See  his  enthusiastic  letter  to  Giacomo  Colonna,  who  had   invited 
him  to  undertake  the  journey. — Fam.,  ii.,  9.  2  Convito,  iv. ,  5. 


Biographical  99 

Petrarch  might  have  rejected  as  faulty 
Dante's  proof  from  chronology,  but  they  would 
have  agreed  that  Rome  was  always  peopled 
not  with  human,  but  with  heavenly  citizens, 
who  were  inspired  by  divine  love  in  loving 
Rome.  "  Wherefore,"  Dante  exclaims,  "  one 
should  not  need  to  inquire  further  to  see  that 
an  especial  birth  and  an  especial  destiny  were 
decreed,  in  the  mind  of  God,  to  that  holy  city. 
I  am  of  the  firm  opinion  that  the  stones  that 
remain  in  her  walls  are  deserving  of  reverence, 
and  that  she  is  worthy,  beyond  all  that  is 
praised  and  glorified  by  men."1  A  similar 
conviction  in  Petrarch's  mind  helps  to  explain 
his  unquestioning  devotion  to  Cicero  and 
Augustine  alike,  and  his  mystical  trust  in  the 
eternal  youth  of  the  hopelessly  senile  Holy 
Roman  Empire.2 

He  was  not  disappointed  in  what  he  saw,  in 
spite  of  the  apprehension  expressed  by  Cardinal 
Colonna  that  the  city,  in  its  terrible  state  of 
ruin,3  would  seem  sadly  different  from  the 
picture  the  poet  had  formed  of  it  in  his  antici- 
pations. On  the  contrary,  his  wonder  and 
admiration  were  but  increased  by  the  sight  of 

1  Convito,  iv.,  5.  2  See  below,  Part  V. 

3  All  authorities  agree  as  to  the  fearful  degradation  of  Rome  during 
the  absence  of  the  popes. 


ioo  Petrarch 

what  remained  of  the  ancient  mistress  of  the 
earth.  That  she  should  have  conquered  the 
world  no  longer  affords  him  surprise,  but  only 
that  she  did  not  conquer  it  sooner.1 

Upon  his  return  to  Avignon,  Petrarch  found 
the  city  more  disgusting  than  ever,  and  in 
turning  over  the  question  of  a  more  agreeable 
home  he  bethought  him  of  a  valley  not  far 
away,  which  he  had  visited  in  his  boyhood, 
and  there  he  determined  to  take  up  his  abode. 
Of  the  beauties  of  Vaucluse,  where  he  spent 
most  of  the  following  fifteen  years,  and  of  his 
life  and  surroundings  there,  he  has  given  us 
many  a  charming  picture.  This  life  of  literary 
seclusion  in  the  suburbs  of  a  great  city  is  so  es- 
sentially modern  in  character  that  it  serves  to 
bridge  the  five  centuries  that  separate  us  from 
Petrarch  and  to  bring  him  into  sympathy  with 
the  scholar  and  litterateur  of  to-day. 

The  form  which  Petrarch's  desire  for  glory 
assumed  in  his  earlier  days  was  the  aspiration 
publicly  to  receive  the  laurel  crown  of  the  poet. 
One  of  his  most  intimate  friends  came  to  the 
conclusion,  as  we  have  seen,  that  this  yearn- 
ing for  the  laurel  had  led  the  poet,  by  a  skil- 
ful personification,  to  delude  the  world  into  the 
belief  that  it  was  a  woman's  charms  that  held 

1  Fam.,  ii.,  14. 


Biographical  101 

him  captive.  Augustine  is  made  to  say  in  the 
Confessions  that  Petrarch's  worldly  madness 
reaches  its  climax  in  the  worship  that  he  paid, 
not  only  to  Laura's  person,  but  even  to  her 
name,  so  that  he  cherished,  "  with  incredible 
levity,"  everything  that  resembled  it  in  sound. 
"  Wherefore  thou  hast  so  loved  the  imperial 
or  poetic  laurel,  which  was  called  by  her  name 
[Laurea],  that  since  that  time  thou  hast  let 
scarcely  a  song  escape  thee  without  mention- 
ing it." 

However  thoroughly  convinced  he  may  have 
become  in  later  life  of  the  vanity  of  such  a  dis- 
tinction, Petrarch  appears  to  have  been  willing 
as  a  young  man  to  resort  even  to  somewhat 
undignified,  if  not  actually  dishonest,  expedi- 
ents to  accomplish  his  end.  When  he  tells  us 
that  upon  the  same  day  (September  i,  1340)  in- 
vitations to  receive  the  laurel  chaplet  reached 
him  from  both  Rome  and  Paris,  we  may  safely 
look,  primarily  at  least,  to  the  poet's  own  con- 
trivances, for  an  explanation  of  this  double 
honour.  Up  to  the  time  of  his  coronation  he 
was  known  only  by  his  Italian  verses,  since 
his  great  epic,  the  Africa,  had  but  just  been  got 
under  way.  He  had  influential  friends,  how- 
ever. At  Paris  his  fellow-citizen  Roberto  de' 
Bardi,  chancellor  of  the  renowned  university, 


102  Petrarch 

was  ready  to  do  him  a  good  turn  ;  and  at  Rome 
his  powerful  friends  the  Colonnesi  were  in  a 
position  to  help  him  to  realise  his  cherished 
ideal.  He  seems,  nevertheless,  to  have  relied 
chiefly  upon  the  aid  of  King  Robert  of  Naples.1 
He  was,  it  must  be  remembered,  a  subject  of 
this  monarch,  to  whom  Avignon  at  that  time 
belonged.  It  was  doubtless  his  friend  Dio- 
nisio  da  Borgo  San  Sepolcro  who  first  brought 
the  comparatively  unknown  poet  to  the  atten- 
tion of  the  King,  and  Robert  showed  his 
awakened  confidence  by  despatching  to  him 
an  epitaph  of  his  own  composition  for  criticism. 
Petrarch  was,  not  unnaturally,  dazzled  by  the 
royal  verses  :  "  Happy  the  pen,"  he  exclaims, 
"  to  which  such  words  were  committed  !  "  Far 
from  venturing  any  strictures,  he  is  doubtful 
what  he  should  most  admire,  the  classic  brevity 
of  the  diction,  the  elevation  of  the  thought,  or 
the  grace  of  expression.2  It  occurred  to  him 
later  that  he  might  employ  the  favour  of  Robert 
to  gratify  his  own  ambition.  The  following  ex- 
tract from  a  letter  to  Dionisio  (January  4,  1339) 
tells  us  more,  perhaps,  than  we  should  wish  to 
know  of  his  plans  :  "  As  for  me,  I  intend  soon 
to  follow  you  [to  Naples].  You  well  know 

1  Petrarch  confesses  that  he  owed  the  crown  to  Robert.      Eel.,  x., 
370  sqq.  2  Fam. ,  iv. ,  3  (the  opening  lines). 


Biographical  103 

how  I  regard  the  laurel.  I  have  resolved,  all 
things  being  considered,  to  be  indebted  for  it 
to  no  one  else  than  the  King  of  whom  we  have 
just  been  speaking.  If  I  shall  seem  sufficiently 
worthy  in  his  eyes  for  him  to  invite  me,  all  will 
be  well.  Otherwise,  I  may  pretend  to  have 
heard  something  which  will  explain  my  coming, 
or  I  will,  as  if  in  doubt,  so  interpret  the  letter 
which  he  sent  me  containing  such  friendly  and 
flattering  recognition  of  an  unknown  man, 
that  I  shall  appear  to  have  been  summoned."1 
Happily,  however,  subterfuges  were  unneces- 
sary, as  two  invitations  to  receive  the  laurel 
came  without  applying  to  Robert. 

After  some  feigned  hesitation  Petrarch 
chose  Rome  rather  than  Paris.  There  is  in 
reality  little  doubt  that  nothing  would  have  in- 
duced him  to  give  the  preference  to  any  other 
place  than  the  Capitol,  which  exercised  an  un- 
rivalled fascination  over  his  mind.  Poets  had, 
during  his  time,  been  crowned  elsewhere, — 
Mussato,  a  poet  and  historian,  at  Padua,  and 
his  old  master,  Convennevole,  at  Prato  ;  but 
centuries  had  passed  since  anyone  had  been 
granted  cosmopolitan  recognition  by  having 
the  laurel  placed  upon  his  head  by  a  Roman 
senator.  In  imitation  of  the  Olympian  games 

lFatn.,  iv.,  2  (vol.  i.,  p.  206). 


104  Petrarch 

Domitian  had,  toward  the  end  of  the  first  cen- 
tury, established  similar  periodical  contests  in 
Rome  in  honour  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  The 
victor's  brow,  according  to  Martial,  was  encir- 
cled by  an  oak  chaplet ;  but  in  other  contests 
held  at  the  Emperor's  villa,  the  laurel  crown 
was  given.  The  later  history  of  the  insti- 
tution is  obscure,  but  the  custom  doubtless 
perpetuated  itself,  and  may  have  lasted  until 
the  destruction  of  the  Empire.  A  vague  tra- 
dition was  current  that  many  poets  had  received 
the  laurel  upon  the  Capitol.  This  Petrarch  ac- 
cepted, evidently  assuming  that  the  great 
Augustan  writers,  whom  he  so  much  admired, 
had  enjoyed  this  distinction  ;  and  in  his  address 
upon  the  occasion  of  his  coronation  he  refers 
to  the  numerous  distinguished  poets  who  had 
been  crowned  before  him  upon  that  spot.  Sta- 
tius,  who  died  circa  96  A.D.,  and  who  must  have 
been  one  of  the  first  to  gain  the  honour,he  cites 
as  the  last  person  recorded  to  have  received  it.1 

As  he  tells  us  in  his  Letter  to  Posterity,  Pe- 
trarch first  betook  himself  to  Naples,  where, 
as  a  preparation  for  his  coronation,  he  sub- 

1  Recolo  ...  in  hoc  ipso  capitolio  romano  ubi  nunc  insistimus  tot 
tantosque  vates  ad  oilmen  preclari,  magisterii  provectos  emeritam 
lauream  reportasse.  .  .  .  post  statium  pampineum  illustrem  poetam 
qui  domitiani  temporibus  floruit  nullum  legimus  tali  honore  decora- 
turn. — Hortis,  Scritti  Inediti,  p.  316. 


Biographical  105 

mitted  to  an  examination  by  the  King.  Rob- 
ert was  somewhat  of  a  philistine,  as  we  may 
infer  from  the  fact  that  Petrarch  found  it  neces- 
sary carefully  to  explain  to  him  the  nature 
of  poetry,  the  function  of  the  poet,  and  the 
significance  of  the  laurel,  and  to  defend  his 
noble  art  against  the  aspersions  of  a  theologi- 
cal age.  However  skilled  in  other  matters, 
the  King  was  but  slightly  versed  in  literature. 
Yet  he  expressed  the  conviction  that,  could  he 
earlier  have  heard  Petrarch's  defence,  he  would 
have  devoted  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  his 
time  to  poetry.1  Of  the  details  of  the  corona- 
tion very  little  is  known.  Petrarch  describes 
it  in  very  general  terms  in  a  metrical  epistle,2 
and  we  have  besides  two  or  three  brief  and  inac- 
curate contemporary  accounts.3  The  address 
which  he  made  upon  the  Capitol  has,  how- 
ever, recently  been  discovered  and  printed,4 
but  it  is,  unfortunately,  a  very  disappointing 
composition  quite  unworthy  of  Petrarch's 
powers.  His  text  is  a  line  or  two  from  Virgil : 

"  But  I  am  caught  by  ravishing  desire,  above  the  lone 
Parnassian  steep,"  6 

1  Rerum  Mem.^  end  of  book  i.  ;  an  interesting  estimate  of  Robert. 

2  Ep.  Poet.  Lot.,  ii.,  I. 

3  Cf.  Hortis,  op.  cit.,  chap,  i.,  "  La  Laurea  del  Petrarca." 

4  Ibid.,  311  sqq. 

6  Georgics,  iii.,  291,  292,  as  translated  by  Rhoades. 


io6  Petrarch 

but  instead  of  developing  his  subject,  as  does 
Cicero  in  his  defence  of  Archias,  he  adopts 
the  repellent,  conventional  form  of  the  times, 
pedantically  classifying  his  ideas  by  headings 
and  numbers,  like  a  scholastic  theologian. 
He  extols  the  laurel  in  a  truly  mediaeval 
fashion  for  its  magic  virtues  in  causing  its 
wearer  to  dream  true  dreams,  and  in  protect- 
ing him  from  lightning,  etc.  The  most  sig- 
nificant part  of  the  address  is  his  defence  of 
poetry. 

"  The  coronation  of  Petrarch  as  poet,"  Kort- 
ing  declares,  "is  an  episode  standing  alone, 
not  only  in  the  annals  of  the  city  of  Rome, 
but  in  the  whole  history  of  mankind.  It  is  an 
epoch-making  event  in  the  fullest  acceptance 
of  the  word."1  This  may  very  well  be  some- 
what exaggerated,  but  the  coronation  was  cer- 
tainly a  solemn  attestation  of  a  new  interest  in 
culture,  although  as  we  have  seen  by  no  means 
a  spontaneous  tribute,  unsought  by  the  poet. 
Later  in  life  he  deprecated  the  whole  affair  as 
a  piece  of  youthful  arrogance  which  left  him, 
in  Faust's  words,  so  klug  als  wie  zuvor.  At 
the  time,  however,  he  was  confident  that  the 
revival  of  the  custom  of  Imperial  Rome  would 

1  Op,  «V.,  p.  174.    Cf.  Gregorovius,  Geschichte  der  StadtRom.,  vi., 
pp.  207  sqq. 


Biographical  107 

be  a  source  of  glory,  not  only  to  the  city,  but 
to  Italy  as  a  whole. 

From  Rome  Petrarch  went  northward  to 
Parma,  where  he  arrived  most  opportunely, 
since  his  old  friend  Azzo  di  Correggio  and  his 
three  brothers  had  just  obtained  possession 
of  the  town.  The  poet's  relations  with  the 
professional  despot  of  the  time  are  so  cor- 
dial and  constant  as  naturally  to  arouse  as- 
tonishment in  one  unfamiliar  with  the  political 
and  social  conditions  of  the  period.  Yet  he 
but  furnishes  an  illustration  of  one  of  the 
most  curious  characteristics  of  the  Renais- 
sance, the  comradery  between  the  blood- 
stained tyrant  and  the  man  of  letters.  The 
"age  of  despots"  and  the  palmy  days  of 
humanism  coincide.  Tyranny  and  the  re- 
vival of  classical  learning  are  historically  so 
closely  affiliated  as  to  suggest  some  causal 
relation.  Certain  it  is  that  they  flourished 
together,  and  early  in  the  sixteenth  century 
disappeared  together. 

The  fate  of  Parma,  where  Petrarch  resided 
at  intervals,  and  the  future  career  of  his  be- 
loved and  respected  Azzo,  are  too  typical  of 
the  period  to  be  completely  ignored  even  in 
this  brief  sketch.  Azzo  had  first  taken  or- 
ders, but  married  later,  and  entered  upon  the 


io8  Petrarch 

then  recognised  metier  of  tyrant.1  It  will  be 
remembered  that  Petrarch  had  earlier  repre- 
sented him  in  a  lawsuit  involving  the  pos- 
session of  a  town,  and  the  friendship  formed 
at  Avignon  remained  constant  to  the  end.  A 
lull  in  the  business  of  the  Correggio  family  led 
Azzo  to  make  what  our  less  picturesque  bosses 
of  the  present  day  would  call  a  "  deal."  Parma 
was,  at  the  moment,  under  the  control  of  the  Sca- 
ligeri  of  Verona.  Azzo,  anxious  for  even  tem- 
porary occupation,  promised  Luchino  Visconti 
of  Milan,  another  of  Petrarch's  friends,  to  turn 
over  the  town  to  the  Visconti  after  four  years, 
if  he  would  aid  him  to  dispossess  the  present 
proprietors.  It  was  under  these  conditions 
that,  with  the  incidental  approbation  and  sup- 
port of  the  citizens,  the  Scaligeri  were  ousted. 
Petrarch  celebrated  the  occasion  in  an  enthusi- 
astic ode  to  Liberty  ! 2 

The  administration  of  the  Scaligeri  had  been 
execrable,  and  there  was  some  reason  for  look- 
ing upon  the  coup  de  main  as  a  deliverance. 
The  brothers,  says  a  chronicler,  began  to  reign 
not  as  lords  but  as  fathers,  without  partiality 
or  oppression  of  any  kind.  Had  they  but  per- 

1  Cf.  Fracassetti,  Let.  delle  Cos.  Fam.,  i.,  525  sqq. 

2  The  canzone  beginning,   Quel   c'   ha   nostra   natura  in   se  piu 
degno. 


Biographical  109 

severed,  they  might  have  continued  to  hold 
the  town  forever,  but  at  the  end  of  a  year  they 
changed  their  policy.1  The  most  fair-minded 
of  the  brothers  died,  and,  regardless  of  the 
arrangement  for  the  speedy  transfer  to  Milan, 
Azzo  sold  the  town,  in  1344,  to  the  Marquis  of 
Este,  for  60,000  gold  florins,  hoping  to  retain 
the  position  of  governor.  This  led  to  a  strug- 
gle between  half  a  dozen  neighbouring  despots, 
and  two  years  later  the  town  was  ceded  to 
Milan,  on  condition  that  the  Marquis  of  Este 
should  be  reimbursed  for  the  sum  he  had  paid 
to  Azzo.  Azzo  soon  made  up  with  his  ene- 
mies, the  Scaligeri,  and  so  far  gained  their 
confidence  that  he  was  twice  appointed  gov- 
ernor of  Verona.  During  his  master's  absence, 
however,  a  revolt  broke  out,  which  was  natur- 
ally attributed  to  him,  and  the  shifty  adven- 
turer found  that  no  excuses  or  explanations 
would  serve  to  pacify  the  offended  Can  Grande. 
He  was  obliged  to  flee,  leaving  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren in  the  hands  of  his  incensed  lord.  For  a 
time  he  wandered  helplessly  about  among  the 
towns  of  northern  Italy,  until  Petrarch,  who 
was  at  that  time  residing  at  the  court  of  the 
Visconti,  procured  him  a  comfortable  refuge 
at  Milan.  As  a  salve  for  his  wounds,  the  poet 

1  See  Fracassetti,  op.  cit.,  i.,  527. 


no  Petrarch 

dedicated  to  the  ill-starred  ex-tyrant,  his  Anti- 
dotes for  Good  and  Evil  Fortune?  We  have 
abundant  proof,  in  both  his  Latin  and  Italian 
verses,  of  Petrarch's  partiality  and  admiration 
for  this  strange  character.  Upon  Azzo's  death, 
he  addressed  letters  of  consolation  to  the  widow 
and  children  of  the  deceased,  and  asserted  that 
in  him  he  had  lost  that  which  gave  life  its  es- 
pecial charm — Perdidi  propter  quod  prcecipue 
me  vivere  delectabat ! 2  We  must  recollect  that 
the  affinities  which  lead  to  friendship  are  often 
obscure,  even  where  our  opportunities  for  ob- 
servation are  most  favourable.  Petrarch  doubt- 
less saw  something  more  than  a  mere  adventurer 
in  this  man,  who  has  left  so  despicable  an  his- 
torical record. 

Petrarch  lingered  in  Parma,  or  its  suburbs, 
about  a  year,  but  the  election  of  a  new  pope, 
Clement  VI.  (May,  1342),  made  it  expedient 
for  him  to  return  to  Avignon  and  present  his 
compliments  to  the  head  of  the  church,  with  a 
hope,  perhaps,  of  securing  some  favour  that 
might  increase  his  precarious  income  from  the 
prebend  at  Lombez.  As  we  have  seen,  bene- 
fices were  regarded,  and  with  justice,  as  found- 

1  In  the  dedicatory  preface  to  that  work  the  reader  will  find  an  in- 
teresting review  of  Azzo's  career. 

2  Var.,  16  (vol.   iii.,  p.   337),  also  Var.,  4.     For  the  whole  matter 
see  Fracassetti,  Let.  delle  Cos.  Fam.,  i.,  pp.  525  sqq. 


Biographical 


in 


ations  for  the  support  of  indigent  scholars. 
Before  returning  to  Avignon  the  poet  ad- 
dressed a  lengthy  metrical  epistle l  to  Clement, 
urging  his  return  to  Rome.  The  Pope  ac- 
cepted some,  at  least,  of  the  suggestions  con- 
tained in  the  letter,  and  furthermore  granted 
its  author  a  priorate  near  Pisa. 

The  quiet  life  at  Vaucluse  was  resumed  only 
to  be  again  interrupted  by  a  journey  to  Naples, 
as  representative  of  the  Pope.  The  mission 
was  not  particularly  successful,  but  the  letters 
written  from  Naples,  describing  the  savage 
state  of  the  inhabitants  and  the  continued  cele- 
bration of  gladiatorial  contests,  are  of  great  in- 
terest.2 It  was  on  his  return  from  Naples, 
while  visiting  some  of  the  towns  of  Lombardy 
(1345),  that  he  discovered  at  Verona  a  codex 
containing  Cicero's  letters  to  Atticus,  Brutus, 
and  Quintus.  They  came,  however,  too  late 
to  exercise  any  important  influence  upon  his 
own  epistolary  style.8  The  following  two  years 
(1346-7)  were  spent  at  Vaucluse,  where  he 
made  certain  improvements  in  his  villa  and 

1  Ep.  Poet.  Lat.,  ii.,  5. 

2  Fam.,  v.,  3,  4,  and  5.    In  the  last  of  these  there  is  a  fine  descrip- 
tion of  a  terrible  storm. 

3  Fam.,  xxiv.,  3  ;  also  Voigt,  op.  cit.,  p.  42.     It  has  been  satisfac- 
torily proved  that  Petrarch  was  unaware  of  the  existence  of  the  im- 
portant collection  Ad  Familiar  es.     Cf.  de  Nolhac,  op.  «'/.,  94  and 
2li  sqq. 


1 1 2  Petrarch 

began  his  work  in  praise  of  the  life  of  solitude. 
But  soon  an  extraordinary  and  absorbing  po- 
litical crisis  distracted  his  attention  from  the 
amenities  of  his  country  home. 

Cola  di  Rienzo,  with  whose  ideas  he  had 
been  fascinated  upon  their  first  meeting,  three 
years  before,  had  suddenly  proclaimed  himself, 
in  the  name  of  the  people,  ruler  of  Rome  (May 
20,  1347).  An  explanation  of  Petrarch's  inter- 
est in  this  famous  coup  d'ttat  will  be  given  later 
in  connection  with  some  of  the  letters  which 
passed  between  him  and  the  tribune.1  So  fully 
was  his  sympathy  aroused  that  late  in  the  year 
1347,  some  six  months  after  Rienzo's  accession 
to  power,  he  resolved  to  go  to  Rome  and  join 
in  the  glorious  movement  of  enfranchisement. 
But,  on  reaching  Genoa,  he  was  arrested  by  the 
news  of  Rienzo's  mad  conduct,  and  abruptly 
gave  up  the  journey  southward.  After  de- 
spatching a  letter  of  expostulation  and  warn- 
ing, he  turned  toward  Parma,  where  another 
prebend  had  recently  been  granted  him  by  the 
Pope.  The  town,  which  had  fared  hardly  dur- 
ing the  later  years  of  Azzo's  rule,  was  now  under 
the  undisputed  sway  of  Luchino  Visconti,  and 
Petrarch  found  the  conditions  there  much  im- 
proved. We  may  infer  that  he  now  enjoyed  a 

1  See  below,  Part  V. 


Biographical  113 

tolerable  income  from  his  benefices  ;  he  was  at 
any  rate  able  to  build  himself  a  house,  which  still 
stands  at  the  corner  of  Borgo  di  San  Giovanni 
and  Vicolo  di  San  Stephano.  He  seems  always 
to  have  had  a  genuine  fondness  for  outdoor  life 
as  a  relief  and  recreation.  In  his  garden  at 
Parma  he  raised  choice  fruits,  and  he  took  pride 
in  the  specimens  of  his  horticulture  that  he  sent 
to  Luchino,  the  lord  of  the  city. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  seemingly  favourable  con- 
ditions, his  residence  at  Parma  marks  a  crisis 
of  affliction  and  bereavement  in  Petrarch's  life, 
from  which  he  never  entirely  recovered. 
"  This  year,  1348,"  he  declared  long  after,  "  I 
now  perceive  to  have  been  the  beginning  of 
sorrow."  Rienzo,  in  whose  fate  he  was  so 
deeply  concerned,  soon  weakly  abdicated,  but 
not  before  Petrarch's  former  friends  the  Colon- 
nesi  had  been  slaughtered  at  the  gates  of 
Rome.  Then  came  the  fearful  plague  which 
swept  over  Italy  and  far  beyond,  and  which 
Boccaccio  has  pictured  in  his  introduction  to 
the  Decameron.  "  Life  is  but  one  long  agony  " 
—Magnus  dolor  est  vivere — our  poet  cried  in 
desperation,  as  bereavement  after  bereavement 
was  announced  to  him.  The  death  of  Laura 
and  of  Cardinal  Colonna  severed  the  two  dom- 
inant attachments  of  his  earlier  life.  Many 


ii4  Petrarch 

other  friends  fell  victims  to  the  same  fearful 
disease,  among  them  Roberto  de'  Bardi,  who 
had  procured  him  the  invitation  to  receive  the 
laurel  at  Paris,  and  Luchino  Visconti  himself. 

We  may  infer  that  the  once  attractive  Parma 
now  aroused  only  sombre  associations.  Petrarch 
wandered  for  a  time  hither  and  thither,  but  at 
the  end  of  1348  he  appears  to  have  taken  up 
a  transitory  residence  at  Padua,  at  the  urgent 
invitation  of  its  ruler,  Giacomo  II.  of  Carrara. 
Here,  as  he  tells  us,  he  was  received  as  the 
blessed  are  welcomed  in  heaven.  His  new 
friend  was  a  typical  despot,  who  had  murdered 
his  cousin,  the  legitimate  successor,  and  was 
himself  murdered  a  few  years  later  (December, 
1350),  by  his  nephew.  He  proved  himself, 
nevertheless,  a  wise  ruler  and  an  enthusiastic 
friend  of  literature  ;  he,  too,  gave  Petrarch  a 
prebend,  in  order  to  keep  him  at  his  court.  In 
the  poet's  admiration  for  this  man  we  perceive 
the  same  instinctive  deference  to  political  sa- 
gacity that  led  Machiavelli  to  declare  Caesar 
Borgia  to  be  the  model  of  princes. 

The  year  1350  had  been  designated  as  a 
year  of  jubilee,  a  timely  occasion  for  the  ex- 
hibition of  the  devotion  stimulated  by  the  ter- 
rible calamities  of  the  preceding  years.  With 
mediaeval  fervour  Petrarch  joined  the  pilgrims 


Biographical  1 1 5 

bound  for  Rome.  On  his  way  southward  he 
visited  Florence  for  the  first  time,  and  for  the 
first  time  saw  face  to  face  his  greatest  literary 
contemporary  and  most  sympathetic  friend, 
Giovanni  Boccaccio.  At  Rome  he  did  not 
neglect  to  visit  the  various  churches  and  per- 
form the  usual  devotions.  Writing  to  a  friend 
a  little  later,  he  declares  that  it  was  providen- 
tially arranged  that  they  did  not  meet  in  Rome, 
else,  instead  of  visiting  the  churches  devotione 
catholica,  they  would,  careless  of  their  souls, 
have  wandered  about  the  city  curiositate  poet- 
ica,  for,  however  delightful  intellectual  pur- 
suits may  be,  they  are  as  nothing  unless  they 
tend  to  the  one  great  end.1  But  the  stay  in  Rome 
was  short,  and  we  have  no  picture  of  the  impres- 
sions which  this  international  mediaeval  "  re- 
vival "  produced  upon  the  enlightened  traveller. 
This  visit  to  his  father's  native  city  of  Flor- 
ence had  suggested  to  its  people  the  idea  of 
re-establishing  the  distinguished  son  of  their 
exiled  fellow-citizen  in  his  rights  ;  they  even 
extended  to  him  an  invitation  to  occupy  a  po- 
sition in  their  newly  founded  university.  For 
these  attentions  the  poet  thanked  the  Floren- 
tines warmly,  but  discreetly  put  aside  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  university  position.  He  had 

lFam.,  xii.,  7  (vol.  ii.,  p.  186). 


n6  Petrarch 

estimated  fairly  the  quality  of  Florentine  ad- 
miration, and  preferred  the  patronage  of  the 
despots.  He  felt,  instinctively,  the  danger  to 
his  reputation  from  continued  contact  with  his 
carping,  novelty-loving,  outspoken  compatriots. 
Some  years  later  (1363),  in  a  moment  of  irrita- 
tion at  the  comments  made  by  the  Florentines 
upon  a  portion  of  his  great  epic  which  had,  by 
accident,  fallen  into  their  hands,  he  writes  to 
Boccaccio  that  the  wise  prince,  Frederick  II., 
who  knew  the  nation  well,  concluded  that  "  all 
familiarity  with  the  Italians  should  be  avoided, 
since  they  are  extremely  curious  and  perceive 
all  too  quickly  the  defects  of  others.  They 
pass  judgment  upon  everything,  not  only  upon 
the  truth,  but  upon  what  they  have  entirely 
misconceived,  so  that  everything  is  turned  to 
ridicule  that  is  not  just  what  they  would  have 
it.  Such  is  their  presumption  that  they  es- 
teem themselves  capable  of  criticising  anything 
and  everything."  "  I  will  not,"  Petrarch  con- 
tinues, "  discuss  the  truth  of  this  opinion,  but 
I  believe  myself  to  be  right  in  saying  that  if 
these  words  were  applied  not  to  the  Italians 
at  large  but  to  our  fellow-citizens,  nothing 
could  be  truer  or  more  to  the  point.  With 
them  there  is  no  such  thing  as  intimacy  and 
friendship,  but  only  censure,  and  that  by  no 


Biographical  1 1 7 

means  mild  and  benevolent,  but  harsh  and  in- 
exorable. There  is  no  one  among  them  who, 
although  he  may  be  more  lax  than  Sardanapa- 
lus  in  his  conduct,  does  not  outdo  Fabricius 
or  Cato  in  the  severity  of  his  judgments. 
But  I  will  not  discuss  their  views  of  things 
which  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  case.  In 
dealing  with  literature  they  seem  to  assume 
that  nothing  is  properly  expressed  which  does 
not  tickle  their  own  great  spreading  ears.  .  .  . 
Elsewhere,  even  beyond  the  Alps  and  the 
Danube,  my  poor  verses  have  encountered  no 
fault-finders ;  but  nothing  fills  the  Florentines 
with  such  horror  as  the  mention  of  a  fellow- 
citizen.  It  is  not  I  alone  who  suffer ;  anyone 
who  would  rise  above  the  common  level  be- 
comes thereby  a  public  enemy.  Believe  me, 
my  friend,  you  who  sympathise  so  fully  in  my 
indignation  at  the  wrong  I  suffer,  believe  me, 
we  were  born  in  a  city1  where  to  praise  one,  is 
to  reproach  many."2  Petrarch  had  doubtless 

1  Ex  ea  urbe  nati  sumus,  an  inexact  expression,  since  neither  was 
born  in  Florence,  but  a  confession  that  they  both  felt  themselves  to 
be  Florentine  citizens. 

2  Sen.,  ii.,  i  (Opera,  p.  751).     Note  Dante's  bitterly  sarcastic  char- 
acterisation of  the  Florentine  readiness  to  express  an  opinion,  in  the 
Purgatorio,  vi.,  especially  lines  127  sqq.  : 

Molti  han  giustizia  in  cuor  ;  ma  tardi  scocca, 
Per  non  venir  senza  consiglio  all'  arco  : 
Ma  '1  popol  tuo  1*  h*  in  sommo  della  bocca. 


n8  Petrarch 

long  harboured  such  feelings,  and  wisely  chose 
not  to  risk  the  danger,  upon  which  both  he 
and  Dante  dwell,  of  the  contempt  which  comes 
from  close  intercourse. 

In  June,  1351,  after  four  years  filled  with 
bereavement  and  anxiety,  we  find  Petrarch 
back  in  his  old  surroundings  at  Vaucluse. 
During  his  brief  stay  here  he  was  called  upon 
to  co-operate  in  no  less  a  task  than  the  draft- 
ing of  a  constitution  for  Rome.  The  Pope, 
convinced  by  the  disorders  of  the  past  years 
that  some  change  was  necessary,  deputed  a 
commission  of  cardinals  to  prepare  a  new  form 
of  government,  and  they,  aware  of  Petrarch's 
familiarity  with  the  conditions  in  Rome,  asked 
his  co-operation.  Those  curious  to  study  the 
poet  as  constitution-monger  will  find  his  plan 
among  his  letters.1  The  power,  he  urged, 
should  be  given  back  to  the  people,  and  the 
barons  should  be  excluded,  for  the  time  being, 
from  the  government.  It  was  about  this  time 
that  he  avoided  accepting  an  onerous  papal 
secretaryship  which  his  friends  were  anxious 
to  force  upon  him,  by  ingeniously  submitting 
so  elegant  a  sample  of  his  style  that  he  was 
rejected  on  the  ground  that  he  could  not  write 
in  the  barbarous  but  official  forms  of  the  curia.2 

1  Fam.,  xi.,  16  and  17.  2  Fam.,  xiii.,  5. 


Biographical  119 

Pope  Innocent  VI.,  who  followed  Clement 
VI.  at  the  close  of  the  year  1352,  was  an  ex- 
ceptionally unenlightened  person,  who,  from 
Petrarch's  well-known  fondness  for  Virgil,  in- 
ferred that  he  must  be  addicted  to  magic. 
After  the  confidence  and  respect  that  he  had 
enjoyed  under  the  preceding  popes,  Innocent's 
suspicions  appeared  to  him  intolerable,  and 
doubtless  supplied  one  of  the  motives  which 
led  him  definitely  to  abandon  his  old  haunts. 
The  death,  or  departure  from  Avignon,  of  many 
of  his  friends,  and  the  loss  of  his  trusted  and 
faithful  housekeeper  at  Vaucluse,  had  helped 
to  render  the  city  and  its  surroundings  more 
distasteful  than  ever,  and  in  May,  1353,  he  left 
the  region  forever  and  joyfully  saluted  his  own 
dear  Italy  : 

Salve  cara  Deo  tellus  sanctissima  salve, 

.     .     .     agnosco  patriam  gaudensque  saluto, 

Salve  pulchra  parens,  terrarum  gloria  salve.1 

Luchino  Visconti  had,  at  his  death  in  1349, 
been  succeeded  in  Milan  by  his  brother,  the 
famous  Bishop  Giovanni,  from  all  accounts  one 
of  the  greatest  rulers  of  his  century.  Like  his 
brother,  he  was  an  admirer  of  literature,  or  at 
least  he  realised  that  the  presence  of  distin- 

1  Ep.  Poet.  Lat.,  iii.,  24. 


1 20  Petrarch 

guished  scholars  at  his  court  might  enhance 
his  influence  ;  and  by  the  mild  but  potent  aid 
of  science  and  letters  he  sought,  as  Rousseau 
declares  the  tyrant  is  wont  to  do,  "  to  over- 
spread his  iron  chains  with  garlands  of  flow- 
ers." His  rule  could  not  but  receive  a  certain 
sanction,  which  would  serve  to  give  it  an  air  of 
legitimacy  in  the  eyes  of  the  Italians,  if  Pe- 
trarch, the  exponent  of  Italian  patriotism, 
could  be  induced  to  come  and  reside  in  his 
capital.  The  now  homeless  poet,  while  doubt- 
less flattered  by  the  august  attentions  of  the 
Bishop,  evidently  felt  some  hesitation  in  ac- 
cepting his  hospitality.  He  objected  on  the 
ground  that  the  noise  of  a  city  disturbed  him  ; 
he  feared,  too,  that  his  duties  towards  his  new 
lord  might  restrict  his  now  inveterate  and 
somewhat  vagrant  fondness  for  liberty  and 
change.  But  upon  his  inquiring  what  was 
expected  of  him,  the  Bishop  replied  that  he 
asked  only  his  presence,  "which,  he  believed, 
would  grace  both  himself  and  his  reign."1 
To  his  scandalised  friends  in  republican  Flor- 
ence the  poet  confesses  that  he  was  induced 
to  stay,  partly  because  he  was  quite  at  a  loss 
where  else  to  go,  and  partly  out  of  respect 
for  the  ill-disguised  commands  of  "  the  greatest 

1  Fam.,  xvi.,  12  (vol.  ii.,  p.  403).   Cf.  also  Fam.,  xvii.,  10. 


Biographical  1 2 1 

of  the  Italians."  He  defends  himself  against 
the  reproaches  of  Boccaccio  and  other  friends 
on  the  ground  that  he  has  in  no  way  sacri- 
ficed his  freedom  ;  but  he  admits  that  it  will 
be  no  such  easy  matter  to  convince  the  public 
of  the  purity  of  his  motives.1 

A  commodious  house  was  selected  for  the 
new-comer  in  the  retired  western  portion  of 
the  city,  where  he  could  look  out  upon  the 
church  of  St.  Ambrose,  and,  far  beyond  the 
walls,  could  see  the  snowy  circle  of  the  Alps. 
Eight  years  were  spent  in  Milan,  which,  under 
the  Visconti,  was  rapidly  becoming  the  busy 
capital  of  a  small  but  important  European  state. 
There  is  no  reason  to  think  that  Petrarch  did 
not  sincerely  love  the  solitude  and  quiet  de- 
lights of  the  country,  but,  like  many  a  modern 
man  of  letters,  he  recognised  that  urban  life,  if 
an  evil,  was  after  all  a  necessary  one.  It  is 
probable,  too,  that,  like  the  later  Humanists,  he 
was  dependent  upon  princely  patronage  for  the 
funds  required  to  support  himself  and  to  hire 
the  necessary  copyists,  since  his  benefices  ap- 
pear to  have  afforded  him  an  insufficient  in- 
come. Whatever  his  motives,  the  precedent 

1  Cf.  close  of  Fam.,  xvi.,  12.  For  Boccaccio's  words  of  protest,  see 
Corazzini's  edition  of  his  letters,  p.  47  sqq.  Nelli  did  not  join  in  the 
criticisms  of  the  other  friends,  but  advised  him  to  do  as  he  pleased. 
See  his  letter  (x.),  in  the  edition  of  Cochin. 


122  Petrarch 

was  established,  and  later  Humanists  were  not 
only  subservient  to  princes,  but  even  resorted 
to  a  species  of  blackmail,  by  threatening,  if 
money  was  not  forthcoming  for  dedications, 
to  blast  the  reputation  of  the  offender  to  all 
coming  generations.1 

That  Petrarch  was  a  member  of  the  Bishop's 
council  of  state  is  not  probable,  but  he  certainly 
delivered  more  than  one  address  upon  solemn 
occasions,  and  undertook  several  embassies  for 
the  Visconti.  Bishop  Giovanni  lived  but  a 
year  and  a  half  after  his  arrival,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  three  notorious  nephews,  Matteo, 
Bernab6,  and  Galeazzo,  the  first  of  whom  soon 
died,  leaving  the  possessions  of  the  Visconti  to 
be  divided  between  the  two  other  brothers. 

No  very  satisfactory  history  of  the  Visconti 
has  been  written  ;  the  opinions  of  their  con- 
temporary judges,  as  well  as  of  later  writers, 
are  exceedingly  contradictory.  In  reaching  a 
conclusion  as  to  the  character  of  the  more 
prominent  members  of  the  family,  the  reader 
may  always  choose  between  the  seemingly  ir- 
reconcilable epithets  of  vir  diabolicus  and  pa- 
ter pair  ice.  There  is  nothing  extraordinary  in 
this,  however,  and  when  the  earnest  investi- 
gator has  examined  all  the  testimony  he  will 

1  See  the  amusing  instances  cited  by  Voigt,  op.  «'/.,  i.,  446  sqq. 


Biographical  123 

doubtless  accept  both  titles,  for  they  are  not 
really  incompatible.  All  periods  offer  instances 
of  the  most  conflicting  qualities  in  the  leaders 
of  men,  and  the  Renaissance  was  especially 
rich  in  examples,  from  the  conduct  of  Boniface 
VI.,  that  upright  and  conscientious  savage, 
who  read  the  hours  in  a  loud  voice  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  near  the  place  of  tor- 
ture, listening  to  the  cries  of  his  aged  victims,1 
to  the  licentious  pranks  which  Cellini  narrates 
of  himself  and  his  fellow-artists.  Especially 
common  are  the  examples  of  bad  men  who 
were  unquestionably  great  statesmen.  It  may 
be  true  that  Galeazzo  Visconti  introduced  the 
most  hideous  system  of  producing  death,  by  a 
carefully  graduated  process  of  mutilation,  but 
it  may  be  equally  true  that  he  himself  suffered 
tortures  of  gout  little  inferior  to  those  of  the 
unfortunate  criminal  with  a  fortitude  and  equa- 
nimity which  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  his 
attendants.  For  years  he  not  only  endured 
these  torments  with  patience,  but,  according 
to  Petrarch,  carried  on  his  government  with 
magnanimity  and  foresight,  and  when  fortune 
went  against  him,2  exhibited  a  high  degree  of 
philosophical  resignation.  The  same  man  who 

1  Cf.  Dietrich  von  Niehm,  De  Scismate,  ed.  Erler,  p.  94. 
9  Sen.,  viii.,  3  (Opera,  p.  836). 


124  Petrarch 

induced  his  courtiers  to  play  at  dice  to  their 
undoing,  might  conciliate  the  learned  by  sup- 
porting scholars  or  establishing  a  university. 
The  magnificent  palace  at  Pavia,  although  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  whole  world,  as 
Corio  declares,1  may  well  have  sadly  afflicted 
the  tax-payer.  The  public  man,  whatever  his 
character  and  aims,  is  pretty  sure,  if  he  rises 
above  mediocrity,  to  be  accused  of  unscrupu- 
lousness.  The  expedients  of  a  fifteenth-cen- 
tury tyrant  were  doubtless  of  a  fiercer  stamp 
than  the  shifts  of  to-day,  but  that  need  not 
prevent  our  understanding  the  admiration  ex- 
pressed by  Petrarch  or  Machiavelli  for  the 
better  qualities  of  a  Giacomo  di  Carrara,  a 
Galeazzo  Visconti,  or  a  Caesar  Borgia. 

The  sojourn  at  Milan  was  interrupted,  as  we 
have  said,  by  several  diplomatic  missions.  In 
November,  1353,  Petrarch  was  sent  to  Venice 
to  try  to  arrange  a  peace  between  that  city 
and  Genoa.  But  his  eloquence  was  vain,  and 
the  war  was  continued,  in  spite  of  a  personal 
letter  of  expostulation  to  the  Doge.2  Of  Pe- 
trarch's relations  with  the  Emperor  Charles 
IV.  something  will  be  said  later.3  In  1356, 

'  Historia  di  Milano  (ed.  of  1565),  p.  567. 
8  Fam.,  xviii.,  16. 
*  See  below,  Part  V. 


Biographical  125 

the  year  after  he  first  met  Charles  in  Italy,  Pe- 
trarch was  sent  to  Prague  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  ruler  of  Milan.  He  tells  us  little  or 
nothing  of  his  experiences,  but  he  evidently 
made  several  friends  in  this  northern  centre 
of  culture,  with  whom  he  continued  to  corre- 
spond after  his  return,  thereby  greatly  widen- 
ing the  scope  of  his  influence.1  Still  a  third 
mission  remained,  which  was  to  carry  him  be- 
yond the  Alps.  King  John  of  France  had,  in 
1356,  been  defeated  by  the  Black  Prince  and 
carried  a  prisoner  to  England,  where,  four 
years  later,  he  gained  his  freedom  only  by  the 
payment  of  an  enormous  ransom.  At  this 
juncture  Galeazzo  Visconti  offered  him  timely 
pecuniary  aid,  upon  condition  that  his  son, 
Gian  Galeazzo,  should  marry  King  John's 
daughter.  The  match  was  promptly  arranged, 
and  the  nuptials  took  place  in  October,  1360. 
It  then  seemed  only  proper  that  Galeazzo 
should  give  some  formal  proof  of  the  satisfac- 
tion he  felt  at  King  John's  release,  and  Pe- 
trarch was  chosen  as  a  fitting  person  to  carry 
his  congratulations.  The  King  and  his  court 
were  so  delighted  with  the  poet  that  they  would 

1  For  the  humanistic  tendencies  at  Prague,  see  Voigt,  op.  cit.,  ii., 
261  sqq.^  and  Friedjung,  Kaiser  Karl IV.  und  sein  Antheilam  geisti* 
gen  Leben  seiner  Zeit^  Vienna,  1876. 


1 26  Petrarch 

gladly  have  induced  him  to  remain  at  Paris. 
This  was,  as  Petrarch  complacently  points  out 
in  a  letter  to  the  Emperor  Charles,  but  another 
proof  of  the  skill  of  the  astrologer  who  had 
long  before  predicted  that  he  would  be  upon 
terms  of  intimacy  with  almost  all  the  great 
princes  of  his  age.1 

A  new  outbreak  of  the  plague,  the  invasion 
of  the  mercenary  troops  (compagnies)  which 
had  been  left  without  resources  by  the  tempo- 
rary cessation  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War,  and 
personal  bereavement  in  the  death  of  his  son 
and  of  his  friend  "  Socrates,"  all  served  to  cast 
a  shadow  over  the  opening  years  of  the  period 
covered  by  the  Letters  of  Old  Age  (1363- 
1374).  The  plague,  which  had  spared  Milan 
in  1348,  raged  there  with  especial  fury  in  1361, 
and  compelled  Petrarch  to  leave  the  city. 
After  a  time  of  hesitation,  during  which  he  re- 
solved first  to  return  to  Vaucluse,  and  then  to 
accept  Charles's  invitation  to  Prague,  he  was 
forced,  by  the  uncertainty  of  the  roads,  to  give 
up  both  plans.  He  decided  in  the  fall  of 
1362  to  establish  himself  in  Venice.  Here  he 
was  furnished  with  a  mansion,  on  the  Riva 
degli  Schiavoni,  upon  the  condition  that  he 
should  leave  his  library  to  the  city.  But, 

1  Fam.,  xxiii.,  2  (vol.  iii.,  p.  184). 


Biographical  127 

while  Venice  fulfilled  her  part  of  the  bargain, 
the  books,  as  we  have  seen,  were  never  deliv- 
ered. l  The  quiet  of  the  city  and  its  freedom 
from  the  martial  turmoil  of  Lombardy,  as  well 
as  the  circumstance  that  it  was  the  home  of 
his  daughter,  who  was  happily  married  to  a 
young  nobleman, — all  served  to  make  Venice 
an  attractive  refuge.  The  city  was  naturally 
much  visited  by  travellers,  and  Petrarch  often 
had  the  pleasure  of  entertaining  distinguished 
guests  in  his  charming  home,  from  the  win- 
dows of  which  he  could  look  off  upon  the  busy 
harbour.  Boccaccio  came  to  see  him  more 
than  once,  but  would  not  consent,  in  spite  of 
Petrarch's  entreaties,  to  make  his  permanent 
home  with  him. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  soon  told.  After 
five  years  at  Venice  the  restless  old  man 
moved  to  Padua,  where  Francesco  di  Carrara, 
the  son  of  his  former  friend,  was  in  power.  It 
was  for  this  younger  prince,  with  whom  he 
lived  upon  the  happiest  terms,  that  he  com- 
posed his  little  work  upon  The  Best  Form  of 
Government?'  This  affords,  as  may  readily  be 
inferred,  a  marked  contrast  to  the  practical 
suggestions  of  Machiavelli's  famous  hand-book, 
The  latter,  however,  only  formulated  princi- 

1  See  above,  p.  31  sqq.  2  Opera,  pp.  372  sgq. 


128  Petrarch 

pies  of  conduct  already  discovered  by  the  very 
house  of  Carrara  for  which  Petrarch  prepared 
his  manual. 

Distracted  by  the  noise  of  the  city,  which 
his  failing  health  rendered  the  more  distress- 
ing, the  poet  found  a  charming  home  at  Ar- 
qua,  pleasantly  situated  in  the  Euganean  Hills, 
some  twelve  miles  south  of  Padua.  In  this 
new  Vaucluse  he  passed,  with  few  interrup- 
tions, the  last  four  years  of  his  life.  He  was 
found  by  his  attendants  upon  the  i8th  of  July, 
1374,  his  face  bowed  upon  the  book  before 
him,  dead. 


During  the  long  life  that  we  have  just  re- 
viewed Petrarch  allowed  scarcely  a  day  to  pass 
without  writing  one  or  more  letters.  The 
historical  importance  and  multiform  interest 
of  his  correspondence  have  already  been  dwelt 
upon.  Letter-writing  was,  as  he  was  aware,  a 
veritable  passion  with  him,  which  was  destined 
to  retain  its  hold  until  the  very  end.  He  fre- 
quently reasoned  about  it  with  characteristic 
self-consciousness,  and  the  reader  will  note 
many  allusions  to  the  subject  throughout  the 
present  collection.  There  is,  however,  one 
particularly  full  discussion  of  his  feelings  to- 


Biographical  1 29 

wards  his  favourite  literary  occupation,  which  is 
to  be  found  in  the  following  dedicatory  preface, 
written,  probably  in  1359,  as  an  introduction  to 
his  first  collection  of  letters.  In  many  ways 
it  is  one  of  the  most  suggestive  of  the  epistles 
and  merits  careful  study. 


Petrarch's  Preface  to  his  First  Collection  of 
Letters 

To  his  Friend  ' '  Socrates  ' '  * 

What  now,  brother  ?  We  have  tried  almost 
everything,  and  nowhere  have  we  found  peace. 
When  may  we  hope  for  that,  and  where  shall  we 
seek  it  ?  Time,  as  the  saying  is,  has  slipped  be- 
tween our  fingers.  Our  early  hopes  are  buried 
with  our  friends.  The  year  1348  has  left  us  solitary 
and  bereaved ;  and  has  taken  from  us  what  all  the 
wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind  could  never  replace.8 

Such  final  losses  are  irreparable,  and  the  wounds 
inflicted  by  death  can  never  be  healed.  There  is 
but  one  source  of  consolation ;  we  shall  soon  follow 
those  who  have  gone  before.  How  long  we  must 
wait  we  know  not.  But  this  we  do  know,  it  can- 

1  Of  "  Socrates,"  as  Petrarch  chose  to  call  one  of  his  most  intimate 
friends  whose  real  name  was  Ludovico,  we  know  almost  nothing. 
He  was  born  in  the  Netherlands  but  appears  to  have  spent  most  of 
his  life  in  Avignon,  where  he  died  in  1362.  Although  he  never 
visited  Italy  he  would  seem  to  have  been  thoroughly  Italian  in  his 
tastes. 

*  Laura,  Cardinal  Giovanni  Colonna,  and  other  friends  of  Petrarch 
fell  victims  to  the  plague  in  that  year. 

130 


Biographical  131 

not  be  for  long;  and  the  delay,  however  short, 
will  not  be  without  its  trials.  Yet  let  us,  here  at 
the  outset  at  least,  refrain  from  lamentation. 

I  do  not  know,  brother,  what  anxieties  are  weigh- 
ing upon  you  or  what  your  present  preoccupations 
may  be.  As  for  me,  I  am  making  up  my  bundles 
and,  as  those  on  the  verge  of  departure  are  wont  to 
do,  I  am  trying  to  decide  what  to  take  with  me, 
what  to  distribute  among  my  friends,  and  what  to 
throw  into  the  fire.  At  any  rate,  I  have  nothing 
to  sell.  I  possess,  or  rather  am  burdened  by,  more 
than  I  supposed.  I  found,  for  example,  a  vast 
store  of  scattered  and  neglected  writings  of  different 
kinds  in  the  house.  I  have  laboriously  exhumed 
boxes,  buried  in  dust,  and  bundles  of  manuscript, 
half-destroyed  by  time.  The  importunate  mouse 
as  well  as  the  insatiable  bookworm,  have  plotted 
against  me,  and,  a  devotee  of  Pallas,  I  have  been 
entangled  in  the  toils  of  Pallas's  enemy,  the  spider. 
There  is,  however,  no  obstacle  which  may  not  be 
overcome  by  persistent  effort.  Surrounded  by  the 
confused  masses  of  letters  and  manuscripts  I  began, 
following  my  first  impulse,  to  consign  everything  to 
the  flames,  with  a  view  to  escaping  from  the  in- 
glorious task  of  assorting  the  papers.  Then,  as  one 
thought  springs  from  another,  it  occurred  to  me 
that,  like  a  traveller  weary  by  reason  of  the  long 
road,  I  might  well  look  back  as  from  an  eminence, 
and  step  by  step  review  the  history  of  my  younger 
days. 

This  counsel  prevailed.  It  seemed  to  me,  if 
not  an  exalted  undertaking,  at  least  not  a  dis- 


132  Petrarch 

agreeable  one,  to  recall  the  shifting  feelings  and 
sentiments  of  earlier  times.  But,  taking  up  the 
disordered  papers  at  random,  I  was  astonished  to 
see  how  distorted  and  blurred  the  past  appeared  to 
me,  not  of  course  that  it,  but  rather  that  my  men- 
tal vision,  had  changed,  so  that  I  hardly  recognised 
my  former  self.  Still,  some  things  that  I  hap- 
pened upon  called  up  pleasant  reminiscences  of  long 
ago.  Some  of  the  productions  moved  with  the  free 
step  of  prose,  some  were  held  in  check  by  Homeric 
reins  (I  have  rarely  used  those  of  Isocrates),1  others, 
destined  to  charm  the  ear  of  the  people,  also  obeyed 
their  own  appropriate  laws.  The  last  mentioned 
style  of  verse,  revived,  it  is  said,  not  many  genera- 
tions ago,  among  the  Sicilians,  spread  in  a  short  time 
throughout  Italy,  and  even  beyond.  This  kind  of 
poetry  was  held  in  great  repute  by  the  earliest 
writers  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  the 
common  people  of  Rome  and  Athens  are  said  to 
have  been  accustomed  to  the  rhythmical  lyrics  only. 
This  chaotic  medley  kept  me  busy  for  several 
days,  and,  although  I  felt  the  potent  charm  and 
natural  partiality  which  are  associated  with  all  one's 
own  productions,  the  love  for  my  more  important 
works  finally  got  the  upper  hand.  These  had  suf- 
fered a  long  interruption  and  were  still  uncom- 
pleted, although  they  were  anxiously  awaited  by 
not  a  few.  The  shortness  of  life  was  borne  in  upon 
me.  I  feared,  I  must  confess,  its  snares  and  pit- 

1  It  was  probably  Cicero's  expressions  of  admiration  in  De  Oratore 
which  led  Petrarch  to  choose  Isocrates  as  typifying  the  oratorical 
style. 


Biographical  133 

falls.  What  indeed  is  more  transient  than  life,  and 
what  more  certain  than  death  ?  It  occurred  to  me 
to  ask  what  foundation  I  had  laid,  and  what  would 
remain  to  me  for  all  my  toil  and  vigils.  It  seemed 
a  rash,  an  insane  thing,  to  have  undertaken  such 
long  and  enduring  labours  in  the  course  of  so  brief 
and  uncertain  an  existence,  and  thus  to  scatter  my 
talents,  which  would  scarcely  suffice  for  the  success- 
ful accomplishment  of  a  single  undertaking.  More- 
over, as  you  well  know,  another  task  awaits  me 
more  glorious  than  these  in  proportion  as  actions 
merit  more  enduring  praise  than  words.1 

But  why  dwell  longer  upon  this  matter  ?  It  will 
perhaps  seem  incredible  to  you,  but  it  is  none  the 
less  true,  that  I  committed  to  Vulcan  for  correction 
a  thousand  or  more  scattered  poems  of  all  kinds 
and  letters  of  friendly  intercourse,  not  because  I 
found  nothing  in  them  to  my  liking,  but  because 
they  involved  more  work  than  pleasure.  I  did  this, 
however,  with  a  sigh,  as  I  am  not  ashamed  to  con- 
fess. But  with  a  mind  so  occupied  it  was  necessary 
to  resort  even  to  somewhat  harsh  measures  for  relief, 
just  as  an  overburdened  ship  must  sometimes  be 
lightened  by  the  sacrifice  of  valuable  cargo. 

After  disposing  of  these  I  noticed,  lying  in  a 
corner,  a  few  papers  which  had  been  preserved  rather 
by  accident  than  intention,  or  had,  at  some  former 
time,  been  copied  by  my  assistants,  and  so  in  one 
way  or  the  other  had  escaped  the  perils  of  advanc- 
ing age.  I  say  a  few — I  fear  they  will  seem  a  great 
many  to  the  reader,  and  far  too  numerous  to  the 

1  This  reference  is  obscure. 


i34  Petrarch 

copyist.  I  was  more  indulgent  to  these,  and 
allowed  them  to  live,  not  so  much  on  account  of 
their  worthiness  as  of  my  convenience,  for  they  did 
not  involve  any  additional  labour  of  my  own. 
As  I  considered  them  with  regard  to  the  natural 
inclinations  of  two  of  my  friends,  the  prose  fell  to 
you,  while  the  verse  I  decided  to  dedicate  to  our 
friend  Barbato.  I  recollected  that  this  used  to  be 
your  preference,  and  that  I  had  promised  to  follow 
your  wishes.  My  mood  was  such  that  I  was  on  the 
point  of  destroying  everything  which  I  came  across, 
not  even  sparing  those  writings  just  mentioned, 
when  you  both  seemed  to  appear  to  me,  one  on  my 
right  and  one  on  my  left,  and,  grasping  my  hands, 
you  admonished  me  in  a  friendly  manner  not  to  do 
violence  at  once  to  my  good  faith  and  your  anticipa- 
tions. This  was  the  chief  reason  why  these  were 
spared,  for  otherwise,  believe  me,  they  would  have 
gone  up  in  smoke  like  the  rest. 

You  will  read  your  portion  of  what  remains,  such 
as  it  is,  not  only  patiently,  but  even  eagerly.  I  do 
not  venture  to  repeat  the  boast  of  Apuleius  of 
Madaura,  "  Reader,  you  have  but  to  listen  to  be 
charmed  "  ;  for  on  what  grounds  could  I  venture  to 
promise  pleasure  to  the  reader  ?  But,  you  at  least, 
will  read  the  letters,  my  good  Socrates,  and,  as  you 
are  very  fond  of  your  friends,  you  may  discover  some 
charm  in  them.  Your  partiality  for  the  author  will 
make  his  style  pleasing  (indeed  what  beauty  of  style 
is  likely  to  be  perceived  by  an  unfriendly  judge?); 
it  is  vain  to  adorn  what  already  delights.  If  any- 
thing gratifies  you  in  these  letters  of  mine,  I  freely 


Biographical  135 

concede  that  it  is  not  really  mine  but  yours ;  that  is 
to  say,  the  credit  is  due  not  to  my  ability  but  to  your 
good-will.  You  will  find  no  great  eloquence  or  vig- 
our of  expression  in  them.  Indeed  I  do  not  possess 
these  powers,  and  if  I  did,  in  ever  so  high  a  degree, 
there  would  be  no  place  for  them  in  this  kind  of  com- 
position. Even  Cicero,  who  was  renowned  for  these 
abilities,  does  not  manifest  them  in  his  letters,  nor 
even  in  his  treatises,  where,  as  he  himself  says,  the 
language  is  characterised  by  a  certain  evenness  and 
moderation.  In  his  orations,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
displayed  extraordinary  powers,  pouring  out  a  clear 
and  rapid  stream  of  eloquence.  This  oratorical 
style  Cicero  used  frequently  for  his  friends,  and 
against  his  enemies  and  those  of  the  republic.1  Cato 
resorted  to  it  often  on  behalf  of  others,  and  for  him- 
self four  and  forty  times.  In  this  mode  of  composi- 
tion I  am  wholly  inexperienced,  for  I  have  been  far 
away  from  the  responsibilities  of  state.  And  while 
my  reputation  may  sometimes  have  been  assailed  by 
slight  murmurs,  or  secret  whisperings,  I  have  so  far 
never  suffered  any  attack  in  the  courts  which  I  must 
needs  avenge  or  parry.  Hence,  as  it  is  not  my  pro- 
fession to  use  my  weapons  of  speech  for  the  defence 
of  others,  I  do  not  frequent  the  tribunals,  nor  have 
I  ever  learned  to  loan  my  tongue.  I  have,  indeed, 
a  deep  repugnance  for  such  a  life,  for  I  am  by  nature 
a  lover  of  silence  and  solitude,  an  enemy  of  the 
courts,  and  a  contemner  of  wealth.  It  was  fortun- 
ate for  me  that  I  was  freed  from  the  necessity  of 
resorting  to  a  weapon  which  I  might  not  have  been 

1  Reading  reipublica  for  remfublicam. 


Petrarch 


able  to  use  if  I  had  tried.  I  have  therefore  made 
no  attempt  to  employ  an  oratorical  style,  which, 
even  if  it  had  been  at  my  disposal,  would  have  been 
uncalled  for  in  this  instance.  But  you  will  accept 
this  homely  and  familiar  language  in  the  same 
friendly  spirit  as  you  do  the  rest,  and  take  in  good 
part  a  style  well  adapted  to  the  sentiments  we  are 
accustomed  to  express  in  ordinary  conversation. 

All  my  critics,  however,  are  not  like  you,  for  they 
do  not  all  think  the  same,  nor  do  they  all  love  me  as 
you  do.  But  how  can  I  hope  to  please  everybody, 
when  I  have  always  striven  to  gratify  a  few  only  ? 
There  are  three  poisons  which  kill  sound  criticism, 
love,  hate,  and  envy.  Beware  lest  through  too 
much  love  you  should  make  public  what  might  bet- 
ter be  kept  concealed.  As  you  are  guided  by  love,  so 
others  may  be  influenced  by  other  passions.  Between 
the  blindness  of  love  and  that  of  jealousy  there  is 
indeed  a  great  difference  in  origin,  but  not  always 
in  effect.  Hate,  to  which  I  have  assigned  a  middle 
place,  I  neither  merit  nor  fear.  Still  it  can  easily  be 
so  arranged  that  you  may  keep  and  read  my  trifling 
productions  for  your  own  exclusive  pleasure,  think- 
ing of  nothing  except  the  incidents  in  our  lives  and 
those  of  our  friends  which  they  recall.  Should  you 
do  this,  it  would  be  most  gratifying  to  me.  In  this 
way  your  request  will  have  been  satisfied  and  my 
reputation  will  be  safe.  Beyond  this  I  do  not  de- 
ceive myself  with  the  vain  hope  of  favour.  For 
how  can  we  imagine  even  a  friend,  if  he  be  not  an 
alter  ego,  reading  without  weariness  such  a  mass  of 
miscellaneous  and  conflicting  recollections  ?  There 


Biographical  137 

is  no  unity  in  the  themes  or  composition  of  the 
letters,  and  with  the  various  matters  treated  went 
varying  moods,  which  were  rarely  happy  and  usually 
despondent. 

Epicurus,  a  philosopher  held  in  disrepute  among 
the  vulgar  but  esteemed  by  those  better  able  to 
judge,  confined  his  correspondence  to  two  or  three 
persons — Idomeneus,  Polyaenus,  and  Metrodorus. 
Cicero  wrote  to  hardly  more,  to  Brutus,  Atticus, 
and  the  other  two  Ciceros,  his  brother  and  son. 
Seneca  wrote  to  few  except  his  friend  Lucilius.  It 
obviously  renders  felicitous  letter-writing  a  simple 
matter  if  we  know  the  character  of  our  correspond- 
ent and  get  used  to  his  particular  mind,  so  that  we 
can  judge  what  he  will  be  glad  to  hear  and  what  we 
may  properly  communicate.  But  my  lot  has  been 
a  very  different  one,  for  heretofore  almost  my  whole 
life  has  been  passed  in  journeying  from  place  to 
place.  I  might  compare  my  wanderings  with  those 
of  Ulysses ;  and  certainly  were  we  only  on  the  same 
plane  in  reputation  and  in  the  fame  of  our  adventures, 
I  might  claim  that  he  had  not  wandered  farther  or 
been  cast  upon  more  distant  shores  than  I.  He  was 
already  well  advanced  in  years  when  he  left  his 
native  land,  and,  since  nothing  is  long  in  our  lives, 
the  experiences  of  his  old  age  were  necessarily  brief 
indeed:  I,  on  the  other  hand,  was  conceived  and 
born  in  exile,  costing  my  mother  such  grievous 
pangs,  and  in  such  critical  circumstances,  that  not 
only  the  midwives  but  the  physicians  long  believed 
her  to  be  dead.  Thus  I  began  to  encounter  dangers 
before  I  was  born,  and  attained  the  threshold  of  life 


138  Petrarch 

under  the  auspices  of  death.  The  event  is  com- 
memorated by  the  no  means  insignificant  city  of 
Arezzo,1  whither  my  father,  driven  from  his  country, 
had  taken  refuge,  together  with  many  another  worthy 
man.  Thence  I  was  taken  in  my  seventh  month 
and  carried  about  all  over  Tuscany  by  a  certain 
sturdy  youth,  who  wrapped  me  up  in  a  cloth,  just 
as  Metabus  did  Camilla,  and  bore  me  suspended  from 
a  knotty  staff,  so  as  not  to  injure  my  tender  body 
by  any  rough  contact.  But  once,  in  crossing  the 
Arno  (I  delight  to  recall  with  you  the  beginnings  of 
my  tribulations),  his  horse  stumbled  and  he  fell  into 
the  water,  and  while  striving  to  save  the  burden  en- 
trusted to  him  he  nearly  sacrificed  his  own  life  in 
the  raging  flood. 

Our  wanderings  through  Tuscany  finally  ended  at 
Pisa.  From  here,  however,  I  was  dragged  away 
again,  in  my  seventh  year,*  and  in  our  journey  to 
France  by  sea  we  were  wrecked  by  winter  storms, 
not  far  from  Marseilles,  and  I  was  on  the  verge  of 
being  summoned  away  anew  from  the  vestibule  of 
life. — But  I  am  straying  from  my  subject.  From 
then  until  now  I  have  had  little  or  no  opportunity 
to  stop  and  take  breath.  How  many  and  how 
various  the  dangers  and  apprehensions  I  have  suf- 
fered in  my  migrations  no  one,  after  myself,  better 

1  Petrarch  learned  upon  visiting  Arezzo,  as  he  was  returning  from 
the  Jubilee  in  1350,  that  the  magistrates  had  ordered  that  no  altera- 
tions should  be  made  in  the  humble  house  where  he  was  born.  See 
Sen.,  xiii.,  3. 

9  Petrarch  refers  this  journey  to  his  ninth  year  in  his  Letter  to 
Posterity, 


Biographical  139 

knows  than  you.  Hence  I  have  felt  free  to  recall 
these  events,  that  you  may  keep  in  mind  that  I  was 
born  among  perils  and  among  perils  have  grown  old, 
—if  old  I  am,  and  there  are  not  worse  trials  ahead. 
Although  similar  vicissitudes  may  be  common  to 
everyone  entering  this  life,  since  existence  is  a  war- 
fare— nay  more,  a  battle, — each  nevertheless  has  his 
peculiar  experiences,  and  the  fighting  differs  greatly 
in  kind.  Each  has  his  own  burdens  to  bear,  but  it 
still  makes  a  great  difference  what  these  burdens  are. 
Well  then,  to  return  to  the  matter  in  hand, — since 
amid  the  tempests  of  life  I  have  never  for  long  cast 
anchor  in  any  one  port,  I  have  naturally  made  innu- 
merable acquaintances.  How  many  true  friends  I 
know  not,  for  friends  are  not  only  exceedingly  few, 
but  difficult  to  distinguish.  It  has  fallen  to  my  lot, 
in  consequence,  to  write  to  a  great  many  who  dif- 
fered so  widely  from  one  another  in  mind  and  con- 
dition that  on  re-reading  my  letters  it  sometimes 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  said  in  one  precisely  the 
opposite  from  what  I  had  in  another.  Yet  anyone 
who  has  been  in  a  similar  position  will  readily  admit 
that  I  was  almost  forced  into  such  contradictions. 
The  first  care  indeed  in  writing  is  to  consider  to 
whom  the  letter  is  to  be  sent;  then  we  may  judge 
what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it.  We  address  a 
strong  man  in  one  way  and  a  weak  one  in  another. 
The  inexperienced  youth  and  the  old  man  who  has 
fulfilled  the  duties  of  life,  he  who  is  puffed  up  with 
prosperity  and  he  who  is  stricken  with  adversity,  the 
scholar  distinguished  in  literature  and  the  man  in- 
capable of  grasping  anything  beyond  commonplace, 


140  Petrarch 

— each  must  be  treated  according  to  his  character  or 
position.  There  are  infinite  varieties  among  men ; 
minds  are  no  more  alike  than  faces.  And  as  the 
same  stomach  does  not  always  relish  the  same  kind 
of  food,  the  same  mind  is  not  always  to  be  fed  upon 
the  same  kind  of  writing.  So  the  task  becomes  a 
double  one,  for  not  only  have  we  to  consider  the 
person  to  whom  we  propose  to  write,  but  how  those 
things  we  are  planning  to  say  are  likely  to  affect  him 
when  he  reads  them.  Owing  to  these  difficulties  I 
have  often  been  forced  into  apparent  contradictions. 
And  in  order  that  unfavourable  critics  may  not  turn 
this  against  me,  I  have  relied  in  a  measure  upon  the 
kind  aid  of  the  flames  for  safety,  and  for  the  rest, 
upon  your  keeping  the  letters  secret  and  suppressing 
my  name. 

But  friends  are  lynx-eyed,  and  nothing  is  likely 
to  escape  them ;  so  that  if  you  cannot  keep  the 
letters  from  the  few  who  still  remain,  be  sure  to  urge 
them  to  destroy  immediately  any  of  my  communi- 
cations that  they  may  possess,  lest  they  be  disturbed 
by  any  changes  which  I  have  made  in  the  words  or 
matter.  These  changes  are  due  to  the  fact  that, 
since  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  would  ask  or 
that  I  would  consent  to  have  the  letters  brought 
together  in  a  single  collection,  I  was  accustomed,  in 
order  to  avoid  labour,  to  repeat  now  and  then  some- 
thing I  had  said  in  a  previous  letter,  using  my  own 
as  my  own,  as  Terence  says.  Now  that  letters 
sent  off  years  ago  to  the  most  distant  regions  are 
brought  together  at  once  in  a  single  place,  it  is  easy 
to  perceive  deformities  in  the  whole  body  which 


Biographical  141 

were  not  apparent  in  the  separate  parts.  Phrases 
which  pleased  when  they  occurred  but  once  in  a 
letter,  begin  to  annoy  one  when  frequently  repeated 
in  the  same  collection ;  accordingly  they  must  be  re- 
tained in  one  and  expunged  from  the  others.  Many 
things,  too,  which  related  to  every-day  cares  and 
which  deserved  mention  when  I  wrote,  would  now 
weary  even  the  most  eager  reader,  and  were  there- 
fore omitted.  I  recollect  that  Seneca  laughed  at 
Cicero  for  including  trivial  matters  in  his  letters, 
and  yet  I  am  much  more  prone  in  my  epistles  to  fol- 
low Cicero's  example  than  Seneca's.  Seneca,  in- 
deed, gathered  into  his  letters  pretty  much  all  the 
moral  reflections  which  he  had  published  in  his 
various  books:  Cicero,  on  the  other  hand,  treats 
philosophical  subjects  in  his  books,  but  fills  his 
letters  with  miscellaneous  news  and  the  gossip  of 
the  day.  Let  Seneca  think  as  he  likes  about  this ; 
as  for  me,  I  must  confess  that  I  find  Cicero's  letters 
very  agreeable  reading.  They  relax  the  tension 
produced  by  weighty  matters,  which  if  long  con- 
tinued strains  the  mind,  though  if  occasionally 
interrupted  it  becomes  a  source  of  pleasure. 

I  cannot  sufficiently  wonder  at  the  boldness  of 
Sidonius,  although  I  may  be  a  bit  rash  myself  in 
denouncing  this  boldness  when  I  do  not  very  well 
understand  his  sarcasms,  either  because  of  my  slow 
wit  or  his  obscure  style,  or,  as  is  not  impossible,  by 
reason  of  some  error  in  the  text.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, is  clear ;  Cicero  is  ridiculed,  and  by  a  Sidonius ! ' 
What  liberty ! — effrontery  I  would  say,  did  I  not 

1  Sidonius  Apollinaris,  a  Christian  writer  of  the  fifth  century,  is 


142  Petrarch 

fear  to  exasperate  those  whom  I  have  already 
offended  by  calling  him  bold.  Here  is  one  of  the 
Latin  people  who  finds  it  in  his  heart  to  attack 
Cicero.  Nor  does  he  speak  of  some  single  weak- 
ness, for  if  that  were  all  I  should  have  to  ask  pardon 
for  both  Seneca  and  myself ;  human  frailty,  indeed, 
can  hardly  escape  criticism.  But  this  Sidonius  has 
dared  to  make  sport  of  Cicero's  eloquence, — his 
whole  style  and  his  method  in  general.  This 
Arvernian  '  orator  does  not  simply  imagine  himself, 
as  he  says,  a  brother  of  the  Latin  orator,  which 
would  be  audacious  enough,  but  he  assumes  the 
role  of  a  rival,  and,  what  is  worse,  of  a  scoffer.  He 
would  deprive  him  of  the  renown  which  all  but  a 
few  of  his  contemporaries  and  fellow-citizens  unani- 
mously concede  to  him  :  even  those  few  were  doubt- 
less warped  in  their  judgment  and  goaded  on  by 
envy,  the  constant  attendant  upon  contemporary 

here  the  innocent  victim  of  Petrarch's  doubtless  excusable  ignorance. 
In  speaking  of  his  own  letters  Sidonius  says  that  he  has  modestly  re- 
frained from  attempting  to  imitate  Cicero's  style,  and  cites  the  fate 
of  Titianus,  who  brought  derision  upon  himself  by  so  doing.  Unless, 
as  is  quite  possible,  the  text  which  Petrarch  used  was  corrupt,  it  is 
difficult  to  explain  how,  even  if,  as  he  admits  (see  below  p.  143),  he 
had  never  heard  of  Fronto,  the  tutor  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  he  could 
have  so  completely  missed  the  point.  The  offending  passage  reads  : 
"  Nam  de  Marco  Tullio  silere  me  in  stylo  epistolari  melius  puto, 
quern  nee  Julius  Titianus  totum  .  .  .  digna  similitudine  ex- 
pressit.  Propter  quod  ilium  cseteri  quique  Frontonianorum  [«.  f., 
admirers  of  Fronto],  utpote  consectaneum  aemulati,  cum  veter- 
norum  dicendi  genus  imitaretur,  oratorum  simiam  nuncupaverunt." — 
Migne,  Patrologia  Latina,  vol.  Iviii.,  pp.  444-5. 

1  Sidonius  was  born  in  Lyons  ;  the  epithet  "  arvernus  "  refers  to  his 
bishopric  of  Clermont,  anciently  called  Arverni 


Biographical  H3 

fame.  But  neither  time  nor  place  afford  any  ex- 
tenuation in  the  case  of  Sidonius.  Consequently  I 
wonder  more  and  more  what  manner  of  person  this 
was  who  thus  attacked  the  undoubted  prince  of 
orators,  although  he  was  himself  a  disciple  of  oratory, 
and  belonged  to  another  age,  and  was  born  in  another 
land.  Upon  turning  the  whole  matter  over  in  my 
mind,  I  find  it  impossible  to  accept  in  the  case  of  so 
learned  a  man  the  excuse  of  ignorance,  and  to  ascribe 
his  perverted  opinions  to  a  weakness  of  the  head 
rather  than  of  the  heart.  I  may  be  mistaken  in  this 
matter,  as  in  many  others,  but  if  I  am  I  rejoice  that 
I  am  mistaken  in  company  with  many,  and  those  by 
far  the  most  distinguished,  judges  in  believing  that 
Cicero  leaves  all  fault-finders  far  behind,  and  that 
to  him  belongs  the  palm  for  prose  eloquence. 
From  this  point  of  view  the  moral  and  intellectual 
perversity  of  those  who  deny  him  pre-eminence  be- 
comes as  clear  as  day. 

Sidonius  brings  forward,  it  is  true,  a  certain  Julius 
Titianus  and  certain  Frontoniani/  of  whom  I  have 
never  heard,  as  the  authorities  for  his  sarcasms.  To 
these,  and  to  all  those  holding  such  views,  I  make 
one  and  the  same  reply,  namely,  that  Seneca  was 
right  when  he  said,  "  Whatever  strength  or  advan- 
tage Roman  eloquence  may  have  to  oppose  to  the 
arrogance  of  Greece  was  developed  by  Cicero." 
Moreover,  Quintilian,  among  the  many  glorious 
things  which  he  says  of  Cicero,  well  observes:  "  He 
was  sent  by  the  special  gift  of  providence,  with  such 

1  See  note  above,  p.  141. 


144  Petrarch 

extraordinary  powers  that  in  him  eloquence  might 
manifest  all  her  resources. "  And  after  many  proofs 
of  this,  he  continues:  "  It  was  therefore  but  right 
that  his  contemporaries  should  declare  with  one  ac- 
cord that  he  reigned  supreme  in  the  courts.  With 
succeeding  generations  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
Cicero  is  no  longer  regarded  as  the  name  of  a  man, 
but  of  eloquence  itself.  To  him,  therefore,  let  us 
look,  placing  him  before  us  as  our  model.  When  a 
student  comes  to  admire  Cicero  greatly,  he  may 
know  that  he  is  making  progress."1  I  hold  more- 
over that,  conversely,  it  is  quite  true  that  one  to 
whom  Cicero's  style  is  displeasing  either  knows 
nothing  of  the  highest  eloquence  or  hates  it. 

Anxious  as  I  was  to  hasten  on,  I  could  not  pass 
over  this  calumny  altogether.  To  return  again  to 
the  letters,  you  will  find  many  written  in  a  familiar 
style  to  friends,  including  yourself;  sometimes  re- 
ferring to  matters  of  public  or  private  interest,  some- 
times relating  to  bereavements,  which  form,  alas !  an 
ever  recurring  theme,  or  to  other  matters  which  cir- 
cumstances brought  into  prominence.  I  have 
discussed  almost  nothing  else,  except  as  I  have 
spoken  of  my  state  of  mind,  or  have  imparted  some 
bit  of  news  to  my  friends.  I  approve,  you  see, 
what  Cicero  says  in  his  first  letter  to  his  brother, 
that  it  is  the  proper  aim  of  a  letter  to  inform  the 
one  to  whom  it  is  addressed  of  something  of  which 
he  was  ignorant.  These  considerations  account  for 
the  title  which  I  have  selected.  For,  on  thinking 

1  Quintilian's  Institutes,  bk.  x.,  ch.  i.,  §§  109-112. 


. 

Biographical  145 

over  the  matter,  although  the  simple  rubric  "  epis- 
tles "  was  quite  appropriate,  I  rejected  it,  both  be- 
cause many  older  writers  had  chosen  it,  and  because 
I  myself  had  applied  it  to  the  verses  to  my  friends 
which  I  mentioned  above,1  and  consequently  disliked 
to  resort  to  it  a  second  time.  So  I  chose  a  new 
name,  and  entitled  the  volume  Letters  of  Familiar 
Intercourse?  letters,  that  is,  in  which  there  is  little 
anxious  regard  to  style,  but  where  homely  mat- 
ters are  treated  in  a  homely  manner.  Sometimes, 
when  it  was  not  inappropriate,  there  may  be  a  bit  of 
simple  narration  or  a  few  moral  reflections,  such  as 
Cicero  was  accustomed  to  introduce  into  his  letters. 

To  say  so  much  about  a  small  matter  is  justified 
by  the  fear  of  censorious  critics,  who,  instead  of  pro- 
ducing work  of  their  own  to  be  judged,  set  them- 
selves up  as  the  judges  of  others'  talents — a  most 
audacious  and  impudent  set,  whose  only  safety  lies 
in  holding  their  tongues.  Sitting  upon  the  shore 
with  folded  hands,  we  are  safe  in  expressing  any 
opinions  we  please  upon  the  art  of  navigation.  By 
keeping  the  letters  secret  you  will  at  least  shield 
these  crude  productions,  that  I  have  carelessly 
thrown  off,  from  such  impudence.  If  ever  I  put  the 
last  touches  to  this  work,  I  will  send  you,  not  a 
Phidian  Minerva,  as  Cicero  says,  but  an  image,  in 
some  sort,  of  my  mind  and  character,  hewn  out  with 
great  labour.  When  it  reaches  you,  place  it  in  some 
safe  niche. 

So  far,  so  good.     The  next  matter  I  would  gladly 

1  /.  f.,  the  metrical  epistles. 

8  Familiarum  rerum  liber.     See  below,  p.  153  sqq. 


146  Petrarch 

say  nothing  about,  but  a  serious  ailment  is  not  easily 
concealed ;  its  very  symptoms  betray  it.  I  am 
ashamed  of  a  life  which  has  lapsed  into  weakness. 
As  you  will  see,  and  as  the  order  of  the  letters  testi- 
fies, the  language  of  my  earlier  years  was  sober  and 
strong,  betokening  a  valiant  heart.  I  not  only  stood 
firm  myself,  but  often  consoled  others.  The  suc- 
ceeding letters  become  day  by  day  weaker  and  more 
dispirited,  nor  have  the  lamentations  with  which 
they  are  filled  a  sufficiently  manly  tone.  It  is  these 
that  I  would  ask  you  to  guard  with  special  care. 
For  what  would  others  say  to  sentiments  which  I 
myself  cannot  re-read  without  a  blush  ?  Was  I  in- 
deed a  man  in  my  youthful  days,  only  to  become 
a  child  when  I  reached  maturity  ? 

With  a  disingenuousness  which  I  reprehend  and 
deplore,  I  conceived  the  plan  of  changing  the  order 
of  the  letters,  or  concealing  from  you  entirely  those 
that  I  condemn.  Neither  subterfuge  would  have 
deceived  you,  since  you  possess  the  originals  of 
these  melancholy  missives,  and  are  aware  of  the 
year  and  day  upon  which  each  was  written.  Con- 
sequently I  must  arm  myself  with  excuses.  I  have 
grown  weary  in  the  long  and  arduous  battle.  While 
courage  and  valour  stood  by  me,  I  made  a  stand 
myself  and  encouraged  others  to  resist ;  but  when, 
by  reason  of  the  strength  of  the  enemy  and  the 
fierceness  of  his  onset,  I  began  to  lose  my  footing, 
and  my  spirits  began  to  droop,  that  fine,  bold  tone 
promptly  deserted  me,  and  I  descended  to  those 
weak  laments  which  are  so  displeasing.  My  affec- 
tion for  my  friends  may  perhaps  extenuate  my 


Biographical  147 

offence,  for  while  they  remained  unharmed  I  never 
groaned  on  account  of  any  wound  of  fortune.  But 
when  almost  all  of  them  were  hurried  away  in  a 
single  great  catastrophe,  nay  when  the  whole  world 
seemed  about  to  perish,1  it  would  have  been  in- 
human, rather  than  courageous,  to  remain  unmoved. 
Before  that  who  ever  heard  me  complain  of  exile, 
disease,  litigation,  elections,  or  the  whirl  of  public 
affairs  ? a  Who  ever  heard  a  tearful  regret  for  my 
father's  house,  for  lost  fortune,  diminished  fame, 
squandered  money,  or  absent  friends  ?  Cicero,  how- 
ever, shows  such  a  want  of  manliness  in  the  way  he 
writes  of  such  grievances  that  his  sentiments  often 
offend  as  much  as  his  style  delights  me.  Add  to  this 
his  litigious  epistles,  and  the  complaints  and  insults 
which,  with  the  utmost  fickleness,  he  directs  against 
distinguished  men  whom  he  himself  has  but  just 
been  lauding  to  the  skies !  On  reading  these  I  was 
so  shocked  and  discomposed  that  I  could  not  refrain 
in  my  irritation  from  writing  to  him  and  pointing  out 
what  offended  me  in  his  writings,  as  if  he  were  a 
friend  and  contemporary.8  Ignoring  the  space  of 
time  which  separates  us,  I  addressed  him  with  a 
familiarity  springing  from  my  sympathy  with  his 
genius.  This  letter  suggested  others  of  the  kind. 
For  instance,  on  re-reading,  after  some  years,  Sen- 
eca's tragedy  of  Octavia*  I  felt  the  same  impulse  to 

1  A  reference  to  the  plague  of  1348  ;  see  above,  pp.  113,  114. 
*  This  list  of  woes  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  Cicero's  ex- 
perience rather  than  his  own. 

8  See  the  letters  to  Cicero,  given  below,  p.  239  sqq. 

4  Petrarch  elsewhere  expresses  doubts  whether  Seneca  really  wrote 


148  Petrarch 

write  to  him,  and  later  I  wrote,  on  various  themes, 
to  Varro,  Virgil,  and  others.1  A  few  of  these,  which 
I  have  inserted  in  the  latter  part  of  this  work,  might 
produce  the  utmost  astonishment  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  were  he  not  forewarned.  The  rest  I  burned 
up  in  that  general  holocaust  of  which  I  told  you 
above. 

Just  as  Cicero  was  absorbed  in  his  trials,  so  was  I 
at  one  time  in  mine.  But  to-day — that  you  may 
know  my  present  temper — it  would  not  be  inappro- 
priate to  attribute  to  me  that  serenity  which  comes, 
as  Seneca  says,  even  to  the  most  untried,  the  serenity 
of  despair  itself.  Why  indeed  fear,  when  one  has 
so  many  times  striven  with  death  itself  ? 

Una  salus  victis  nullam  sperare  salutem. 

You  will  see  me  work  and  speak  with  growing  cour- 
age from  day  to  day.  If  I  should  hit  upon  any 
subject  worthy  of  my  pen,  the  style  itself  will  be 
more  vigorous.  Many  themes  will  undoubtedly 
offer  themselves.  My  writing  and  my  life  I  foresee 
will  come  to  an  end  together. 

But  while  my  other  works  are  finished,  or  bid  fair 
to  be,  these  letters,  which  I  began  in  an  irregular 
fashion  in  my  early  youth,  and  am  now  bringing  to- 
gether in  my  old  age  and  arranging  in  a  volume,  — 
this  work  the  love  of  my  friends  will  never  permit  me 
to  finish,  since  I  must  conscientiously  reply  to  their 
messages ;  nor  can  I  ever  persuade  them  to  accept  the 

this  tragedy  which,  it  is  now  generally  believed,  is  by  another  hand. 
See  Fam.,  xxiv.,  5. 

1  See  below,  Part  III.,  for  examples  of  these  letters. 


Biographical  149 

oft-repeated  excuse  of  my  other  occupations.  When 
you  shall  learn  that  I  have  at  last  begged  to  be  freed 
from  that  duty,  and  have  brought  this  work  to  an  end, 
then  you  may  know  that  I  am  dead  and  freed  from 
all  life's  burdens.  In  the  meantime  I  shall  continue 
to  follow  the  path  which  I  have  entered  upon,  not 
looking  for  its  end  until  darkness  comes  upon  me. 
Pleasant  work  will  take  the  place  of  repose  with  me. 
Moreover,  having  placed  the  weakest  of  my  forces 
in  the  centre,  as  orators  and  generals  are  wont  to 
do,  I  shall  take  care  that,  as  I  showed  a  solid  front 
in  beginning  my  book,  so  my  rear-guard  too  shall  not 
be  wanting  in  courage.  Indeed,  I  may  make  better 
head  against  the  attacks  and  buffets  of  fortune, 
thanks  to  a  gradual  process  of  hardening  which  has 
gone  on  through  life.  In  short,  although  I  dare  not 
assert  how  I  shall  demean  myself  in  the  stress  of 
circumstances,  I  am  firmly  resolved  not  to  succumb 
to  any  trial  hereafter.  ' '  Beneath  the  crash  of  worlds 
undaunted  he  appears."  You  may  picture  me  thus 
armed  with  the  good  thoughts  of  Virgil  and  Horace, 
which  I  used  often  to  read  and  praise  in  my  earlier 
years,  and  which,  in  my  latter  days  of  calamity, 
stern  necessity  has  forced  me  to  make  my  own. 

My  communion  with  you  has  been  very  pleasant, 
and  I  have,  in  my  enjoyment,  been  led  half  un- 
consciously to  prolong  it.  It  brought  back  your 
face  over  land  and  sea,  and  kept  you  with  me  until 
evening.  I  took  up  my  pen  this  morning,  and  the 
day  and  this  letter  are  coming  to  an  end  together. 

Well,  this  which  I  dedicate  to  you,  my  brother,  is 
a  fabric,  so  to  speak,  of  many  coloured  threads. 


150  Petrarch 

But  should  I  ever  find  a  resting-place,  and  the  lei- 
sure I  have  always  sought  in  vain  (and  there  is  the 
promise  of  such  a  change),  I  intend  to  weave  for  you 
a  more  worthy  and  certainly  more  uniform  web.  I 
should  be  glad  to  think  that  I  am  among  the  few 
who  can  promise  and  confer  fame ;  but  you  can  lift 
yourself  into  the  light  without  my  aid,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  your  own  genius.  However,  if  I  am  able 
to  rise,  in  spite  of  all  the  difficulties  which  beset  me, 
you  hereafter  shall  assuredly  be  my  Idomeneus,  my 
Atticus,  and  my  Lucilius.  Farewell. 


The  selection  and  copying  of  the  letters, 
which  Petrarch  appears  to  have  begun  about 
1359,  when  he  was  fifty-five  years  old,  proved 
to  be  a  trying  task  that  dragged  through  five  or 
six  years.  Writing  to  Boccaccio,  in  1365,  he  de- 
scribes a  clever  youth  of  Ravenna  who  had  come 
to  him  two  years  before  and,  among  other  du- 
ties, had  assisted  him  in  editing  the  correspond- 
ence.1 "  My  prose  epistles  to  my  friends," 2  he 
says,  "  are  very  numerous  ;  would  that  they 
were  proportionately  valuable !  What  with 
the  confusion  of  the  copies  and  the  pressure 
of  my  other  occupations  I  had  almost  de- 
spaired of  editing  them.  Four  friends  had 
promised  me  their  aid,  but  after  a  trial  had 
left  the  task  half  done  ;  yet  this  young  man 

1  Fam.,  xxiii.,  19  (vol.  iii.,  pp.  237,  238).      *  Familiares  epistobe. 


Biographical  151 

has,  quite  by  himself,  completed  the  collec- 
tion, which  does  not  include  all  indeed,  but  as 
many  of  them  as  will  go  into  a  not  too  huge 
volume.  Counting  this  one,  they  amount  to 
three  hundred  and  fifty,1  which,  if  it  please 
God,  you  shall  sometime  behold,  written  in  his 
hand.  You  will  not  find  the  ill-defined  though 
sumptuous  penmanship  affected  by  our  copy- 
ists, or  rather  painters,  of  to-day,  which  de- 
lights us  at  a  distance,  but,  as  if  invented  for 
any  other  purpose  than  to  be  read,  strains  and 
tires  the  eyes  when  we  look  at  it  intently,  thus 
belying  the  saying  of  the  prince  of  grammar- 
ians that  the  word  letter  comes  from  legere, 
to  read.  This  youth's  characters  are,  on  the 
contrary,  compressed2  and  clear,  carrying  the 
eye  with  them,  nor  will  you  discover  any  faults 
of  orthography  or  grammatical  errors." 

It  is  safe  to  infer  that  the  additional  labour 
involved  in  duplicating  from  the  outset  all  his 
letters,  so  that  he  might  retain  copies  of  them, 
was  not  undertaken  without  the  expectation  of 
ultimately  bringing  them  together  into  a  col- 
lection for  publication,  like  the  correspondence 

1  There  are  but  three  hundred  and  forty-seven  in  the  codices  used 
by  Fracassetti.  See  Let.  delle  Cos.  Fam.,  v.,  p.  no. 

*  Castigata,  i.  e.,  without  any  flourishes  such  as  disfigure  the  manu- 
scripts of  the  period.  See  the  facsimile  of  Petrarch's  own  clear 
handwriting,  p.  238. 


i52  Petrarch 

of  Seneca  and  that  of  Abelard,  with  both  of  which 
he  was  familiar.  (Of  Cicero's  letters  he  knew 
little  if  anything  until  he  himself  discovered  a 
copy  of  part  of  them  at  Verona,  in  1345,  when 
he  was  already  forty-one  years  old,  too  late  for 
them  to  exercise  any  decisive  influence  upon 
the  formation  of  his  epistolary  style.1)  He 
had,  moreover,  long  before  the  editing  began, 
promised  his  friend  "  Socrates  "  that  these  prose 
epistles  should  be  dedicated  to  him.2  There 
can  even  be  no  doubt  that  individual  letters 
were  destined  for  a  more  or  less  wide  circle  of 
readers,  as  is  shown  by  their  careful  composi- 
tion and,  here  and  there,  by  a  naive  confession, 
as  in  the  repetition  for  the  benefit  of  others 
of  the  earlier  part  of  the  story  of  the  gold- 
smith, with  which  the  friend  to  whom  he  was 
writing  was  already  familiar.3  Indeed  he 
closes  his  collection  with  an  explicit  appeal 
to  the  "  candid  reader,  whoever  thou  art,"  ex- 
horting him  by  their  common  love  for  the 
same  studies  not  to  allow  himself  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  confusion  and  unstudied  lan- 
guage of  the  work,  but  to  recall  the  excuses 
offered  in  the  Preface. 4 

1  The  other  great  classical  collections  of  letters,  Pliny's,  appears  to 
have  been  unknown  to  Petrarch.     See,  further,  p.  230  sq. 

2  See  above,  p.  134.  3  See  below,  p.  172. 
4  Fam.,  xxiv.,  13  (vol.  iii.,  p.  307). 


Biographical  153 

The  entire  prose  correspondence  of  Petrarch 
falls  into  four  divisions.  The  largest  group, 
the  one  that  he  discusses  in  the  Preface  given 
above,  embraces  three  hundred  and  forty-seven 
letters,  which  were  written  between  the  years 
1332  and  I362.1  To  this  collection,  which 
filled  the  "  not  too  huge  volume,"  he  decided 
to  give  the  unassuming  general  title  of  De 
Rebus  Familiar ibus^  by  which  he  meant  to 
imply  that  every-day  topics  were  therein  dis- 
cussed with  his  friends,  with  no  especial  atten- 
tion to  style.  He  evidently  wished  to  avoid 
any  possible  inference  that  he  supposed  that 
so  miscellaneous  and  heterogeneous  a  mass  of 
work  could  possess  real  literary  form  and  merit. 
The  title  may  fairly  enough,  if  not  literally,  be 
translated  Letters  of  Friendly  Intercourse. 

A  second  and  much  smaller  collection  was 
formed  from  those  which  could  not  be  included 
in  the  main  volume  without  unduly  increasing 
its  bulk.2  About  seventy  of  these  have  been 
re-discovered,  and  constitute  the  so-called  Mis- 
cellaneous Letters  (Epistolce  Varice). 

But  the  editing  of  this  earlier  correspondence 
did  not  bring  the  work  to  a  close ;  the  love  of 
his  friends  admitted  no  conclusion  to  the  task. 

1  One  earlier  letter  (1326),  and  a  half  dozen  written  later,  have 
found  their  way  into  this  group.      *Fam.,  xxiv.,  13  (vol.  iii.,  p.  306). 


1 54  Petrarch 

"Their  messages,"  he  declares,  "will  still  con- 
tinue to  come  and  I  must  continue  to  reply  to 
them."  Consequently  a  new  division  of  the 
correspondence  was  formed,  the  important 
E pis  tola  de  Rebus  Senilibus, — Letters  of  Old 
Age, — which  were  written  during  the  last 
twelve  years  of  the  poet's  life.  A  short  dedi- 
cation to  "Simonides"  (i.e.,  Francesco  Nelli) 
is  prefixed  to  them.1  There  are  one  hundred 
and  twenty-four  in  this  group,  some  of  them 
very  long. 

Lastly,  there  is  a  little  group  of  about 
twenty  letters,  some  of  which  contained  such 
frank  strictures  upon  the  regime  of  the  popes 
at  Avignon  that  Petrarch  found  it  expedient 
to  put  them  by  themselves  and  to  suppress  the 
names  of  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
These,  the  Epistolcz  sine  Titulo, 2  are  so  acrid 
in  tone,  and  so  unmeasured  in  the  abuse  which 
they  heap  upon  the  degraded  churchmen,  that 
their  author  has  sometimes  mistakenly  been 
reckoned  as  a  forerunner  of  the  Reformation  ; 
but,  as  we  shall  see,  he  had  no  thought  of 
questioning  a  single  dogma  of  the  Catholic 
Church. 

1  Sen.,  i.,  i,  and  iii.,  i. 

8  In  the  Basle  editions  of  the  works,  and  in  the  editions  of  the  let- 
ters published  in  1601,  some  letters  are  included  among  the  Epistofa 
sine  Titulo  which  apparently  do  not  belong  there. 


Biographical  155 

Of  the  Letters  of  Friendly  Intercourse, 
scarcely  half  appear  in  the  most  complete  of 
the  older  printed  editions,1  but  they  have,  not 
long  since,  been  edited  in  full  by  Giuseppe 
Fracassetti,  who  includes  no  less  than  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-eight  never  before  printed. 
The  Epistolcz  Varice — Miscellaneous  Letters — 
are  also  to  be  found  in  his  excellent  edition.2 
The  Letters  of  Old  Age  were  early  printed 
in  their  entirety,  but  unfortunately  have  not 
been  reproduced  since  1581.  If  one  would 
read  them  in  the  original  he  must  still  turn  to 
the  miserable  Basle  editions  of  the  works, 
which  would  almost  appear  to  have  been 
printed  by  persons  unfamiliar  with  the  rudi- 
ments of  Latin,  so  numerous  and  incredible 
are  the  typographical  errors  which  not  only 
try  the  reader's  temper  but  often  entirely 
obscure  the  meaning. 

How  far  Petrarch  modified  the  original  form 
of  the  letters  in  editing  them  is  an  important 
question,  but  one  upon  which  we  have  but  lit- 
tle information.  He  says  in  the  Preface  that 
the  unworthy  expedient  occurred  to  him  of 
suppressing  such  letters  as  exhibited  his  past 

1  Not  more  than  one-third  are  to  be  found  in  the  Basle  editions  of 
1554  and  1581. 

2  Francisci  Petrarcce  Epistola  de  Rebus  Familiaribus  et    Varia, 
studio  et  cura  Josephi  Fracassetti,  Tom.  iii.,  8°,  Florentiae,  1859-63. 


iS6  Petrarch 

weakness,  or  so  changing  their  order  that  he 
should  at  least  appear  in  a  more  favourable 
light.  But  this,  he  decided,  would  be  quite 
useless,  since  his  friends  possessed  the  properly 
dated  originals.  On  the  other  hand,  he  cert- 
ainly destroyed  a  large  number  of  his  papers. 
What  canons  he  adopted  in  his  selection  we 
cannot  determine,  but  obviously  the  temptation 
to  exclude  those  which  might  seem  to  place 
him  in  a  false  position  must  have  been  almost 
irresistible.  Moreover,  he  did  not  hesitate,  as 
we  have  seen,  in  order  to  avoid  repetition  and 
monotony,  to  so  alter  the  language  that  he  felt 
it  necessary  to  ask  his  friends,  in  some  in- 
stances, to  destroy  their  original  copies  lest 
they  should  be  hurt  by  the  changes  he  had 
made. 

There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  Letters 
of  Friendly  Intercourse  are  arranged  in  the 
codices,  and  published  by  Fracassetti,  in  the 
order  in  which  Petrarch  first  placed  them. 
His  intention  was  to  observe  chronological  se- 
quence, for  he  says  explicitly  that  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  letters  to  dead  authors,  which  he 
put  together  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  almost 
all  the  rest  remained  in  the  order  in  which  they 
were  written. *  While  this  is  true  in  general, 

1  Fam.t  xxiv.,  13  (vol.  iii.,  p.  306). 


Biographical  157 

there  are  many  obvious  exceptions.  Unfortun- 
ately he  did  not  ordinarily  indicate  the  year, 
but  only  the  day  and  the  month  upon  which 
he  wrote.  It  is  very  probable,  therefore,  that 
in  arranging  the  letters  years  later  he  was 
often  unable  to  determine  just  where  a  letter 
belonged.  Fracassetti  has  devoted  a  great 
deal  of  attention  to  establishing  the  dates, 
where  it  is  possible,1  and  has  in  this  way  done 
much  to  make  the  course  of  the  poet's  life 
clearer. 

There  is  but  one  letter  among  those  which 
have  been  preserved  to  which  an  earlier  date 
than  1331  can  be  ascribed.  The  series  be- 
gins, therefore,  in  Petrarch's  twenty-seventh 
or  twenty-eighth  year.  Some  ninety  of  the  let- 
ters were  probably  written  before  he  was  forty, 
but  the  great  bulk  of  them  belong  to  his  later 
years.  Almost  one-half  of  those  included  in 
the  various  collections  were  composed  after  he 
had  reached  fifty. 

It  will  naturally  be  asked  if  any  of  the  re- 
plies called  forth  by  Petrarch  during  toward 
half  a  century  of  indefatigable  letter-writing 
have  come  down  to  us.  A  few  only  have  been 
preserved.  Recently  a  little  volume  contain- 
ing thirty  letters  from  his  Florentine  friend 

1  In  the  notes  to  his  Italian  version  of  the  letters. 


158  Petrarch 

Francesco  Nelli,  has  been  published.1  Besides 
these,  there  are  four  letters  from  Boccaccio,2 
one  from  Rienzo,3  one  from  the  Emperor 
Charles  IV.,4  three  from  Guglielmo  di  Pas- 
trengo,5  five  from  the  enthusiastic  young  Hu- 
manist, Coluccio  Salutati,6  and  perhaps  a  very 
few  others.  With  these  exceptions,  Petrarch's 
correspondence  includes  only  his  own  letters ; 
and  his  friends  often  exist  for  us  only  in  his 
kindly  allusions  to  them.  This  is  pre-emi- 
nently true  of  "  Socrates"  and  "  Laelius,"  to 
whom  so  many  of  the  letters  are  addressed. 

1  Lettres    de  Francesco   Nelli  a  Pttrarque,  publiees  par   Henry 
Cochin,  Paris,  1892. 

9  In  Le  Lettere  di  Boccaccio,  edited  by  Corazzini,  Florence,  1877. 

3  In  the  Epistolario  di  Cola  di  Rienzo,  edited  by  Gabrielli,  Rome, 
1890. 

4  In  Mehus's  Vita  Ambrosii,  p.  191.     Translated  into  Italian  by 
Fracassetti,  Let.  delle  Cos,  Fam.,  iv.,  85  sg. 

5  These  were  formerly  attributed  to  Petrarch,  and  are  printed  in 
the  Venetian  edition  of  his  letters  (1503).    See  Fracassetti,  Let.  delle 
Cos.  Fain.,  ii.,  439  sqq. 

'  In  the  Epistolarium  de  Coluccio  Salutati,  edited  by  Novati,  vol.  i. 


II 


PETRARCH  AND  HIS  LITERARY 
CONTEMPORARIES 


159 


Quotidie  epistolas,  quotidie  carmina  omnis  in  caput 
hoc  nostri  orbis  angulus  pluit  ;  .  .  .  jam  nee  Gallis 
modo,  sed  Graiis  et  Teutonis  et  Britannis  tempestatibus 
litterarum  pulsor,  omnium  ingeniorum  arbiter,  mei  ipsius 
ignarus. — Fam.,  xiii.,  7. 


160 


I^HE  following  letters  have  been  selected 
with  a  view  to  illustrating  Petrarch's  atti- 
tude toward  the  Italian  language  and  litera- 
ture, his  estimate  of  the  other  writers  of  his 
time,  especially  Dante  and  Boccaccio,  and,  in 
general,  his  literary  ideals,  and  habits  of  work. 
An  effort  has  been  made  to  secure  some  con- 
tinuity by  the  arrangement  of  the  matter  and 
the  accompanying  explanations,  but  any  strictly 
logical  presentation  is  precluded  by  the  mis- 
cellaneous contents  of  the  letters  themselves. 
The  reader  is  left,  in  most  cases,  to  make  his 
own  deductions  from  Petrarch's  words,  but  a 
brief  excursus  is  added  here  and  there,  with 
the  hope  of  emphasising  some  of  the  more 
important  points. 

The  first  two  letters  would  indicate  that  there 
was  a  wide-spread  interest  in  literature  during 
the  fourteenth  century,  and  that  Petrarch  was 
looked  upon  as  the  highest  tribunal  before 
which  the  aspirant  could  lay  his  work.  Few 
of  his  letters  are  more  instructive  or  are  written 

161 


1 62  Petrarch 

in  a  lighter  and  more  felicitous  tone  than  the 
one  which  follows. 

Petrarch's  Passion  for  Work — The  Trials  of  a 
Man  of  Letters 

To  the  Abbot  of  St.  Benigno  ' 

Strangely  enough  I  long  to  write,  but  do  not 
know  what  or  to  whom.  This  inexorable  passion 
has  such  a  hold  upon  me  that  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
and  work  prolonged  far  into  the  night,  are  more  to 
my  liking  than  repose  and  sleep.  In  short,  I  find 
myself  always  in  a  sad  and  languishing  state  when 
I  am  not  writing,  and,  anomalous  though  it  seems, 
I  labour  when  I  rest,  and  find  my  rest  in  labour. 
My  mind  is  hard  as  rock,  and  you  might  well  think 
that  it  really  sprang  from  one  of  Deucalion's  stones. 
Let  this  tireless  spirit  pore  eagerly  over  the  parch- 
ment, until  it  has  exhausted  both  fingers  and  eyes  by 
the  long  strain,  yet  it  feels  neither  heat  nor  cold,  but 
would  seem  to  be  reclining  upon  the  softest  down. 
It  is  only  fearful  that  it  may  be  dragged  away,  and 
holds  fast  the  mutinous  members.  Only  when 
sheer  necessity  has  compelled  it  to  quit  does  it  begin 
to  flag.  It  takes  a  recess  as  a  lazy  ass  takes  his 
pack  when  he  is  ordered  up  a  sharp  hill,  and  comes 
back  again  to  its  task  as  a  tired  ass  to  his  well-filled 
manger.  My  mind  finds  itself  refreshed  by  pro- 
longed exercise,  as  the  beast  of  burden  by  his  food 

1  Fam.,  xiii.,  7.  This  is  the  only  letter  that  is  preserved  of 
Petrarch  to  this  person. 


Literary  Contemporaries          163 

and  rest.  What  then  am  I  to  do,  since  I  cannot 
stop  writing,  or  bear  even  the  thought  of  rest  ?  I 
write  to  you,  not  because  what  I  have  to  say  touches 
you  nearly,  but  because  there  is  no  one  so  accessible 
just  now  who  is  at  the  same  time  so  eager  for 
news,  especially  about  me,  and  so  intelligently  in- 
terested in  strange  and  mysterious  phenomena,  and 
ready  to  investigate  them. 

I  have  just  told  you  something  of  my  condition 
and  of  my  indefatigable  brain,  but  I  will  tell  you  now 
an  incident  which  may  surprise  you  even  more,  and 
will  at  the  same  time  prove  the  truth  of  what  I 
have  said.  It  happened  at  a  time  when,  after  a 
long  period  of  neglect,  I  had  just  taken  up  my 
Africa  again,  and  that  with  an  ardour  like  that  of 
the  African  sun  itself.  This  is  the  task  which,  if 
anything  will  help  me,  I  trust  may  some  time 
moderate  or  assuage  my  insatiable  thirst  for  work. 
One  of  my  very  dearest  friends,  seeing  that  I  was 
almost  done  for  with  my  immoderate  toil,  suddenly 
asked  me  to  grant  hhn  a  very  simple  favour.  Al- 
though I  was  unaware  of  the  nature  of  his  request,  I 
could  not  refuse  one  who  I  knew  would  ask  nothing 
except  in  the  friendliest  spirit.  He  thereupon  de- 
manded the  key  of  my  cabinet.  I  gave  it  to  him, 
wondering  what  he  would  do,  when  he  proceeded  to 
gather  together  and  lock  up  carefully  all  my  books 
and  writing  materials.  Then,  turning  away,  he 
prescribed  ten  days  of  rest,  and  ordered  me,  in  view 
of  my  promise,  neither  to  read  nor  write  during  that 
time.  I  saw  his  trick ;  to  him  I  now  seemed  to  be 
resting,  although  in  reality  I  felt  as  if  I  were  bound 


164  Petrarch 

hand  and  foot.  That  day  passed  wearily,  seeming 
as  long  as  a  year.  The  next  day  I  had  a  headache 
from  morning  till  night.  The  third  day  dawned 
and  I  began  to  feel  the  first  signs  of  fever,  when  my 
friend  returned,  and  seeing  my  plight  gave  me  back 
the  keys.  I  quickly  recovered,  and  perceiving  that 
I  lived  on  work,  as  he  expressed  it,  he  never  repeated 
his  request. 

Is  it  then  true  that  this  disease  of  writing,  like 
other  malignant  disorders,  is,  as  the  Satirist  claims, 
incurable,  and,  as  I  begin  to  fear,  contagious  as 
well  ?  How  many,  do  you  reckon,  have  caught  it 
from  me  ?  Within  our  memory,  it  was  rare  enough 
for  people  to  write  verses.1  But  now  there  is  no  one 
who  does  not  write  them ;  few  indeed  write  anything 
else.  Some  think  that  the  fault,  so  far  as  our  con- 
temporaries are  concerned,  is  largely  mine.  I  have 
heard  this  from  many,  but  I  solemnly  declare,  as  I 
hope  some  time  to  be  granted  immunity  from  the 
other  ills  of  the  soul — for  I  look  for  none  from  this 
— that  I  am  now  at  last  suddenly  awakened  for  the 
first  time  by  warning  signs  to  a  consciousness  that 
this  may  perhaps  be  true;  while  intent  only  upon 
my  own  welfare,  I  may  have  been  unwittingly  injur- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  myself  and  others.  I  fear  that 
the  reproaches  of  an  aged  father,  who  unexpectedly 
came  to  me,  with  a  long  face  and  almost  in  tears, 
may  not  be  without  foundation.  '  While  I,"  he 
said,  "  have  always  honoured  your  name,  see  the 
return  you  make  in  compassing  the  ruin  of  my  only 
son!"  I  stood  for  a  time  in  embarrassed  silence, 
1  Hac,  here  used,  we  may  safely  infer,  means  verses. 


Literary  Contemporaries          165 

for  the  age  of  the  man  and  the  expression  of  his 
face,  which  told  of  great  sorrow,  went  to  my  heart. 
Then,  recovering  myself,  I  replied,  as  was  quite  true, 
that  I  was  unacquainted  either  with  him  or  his  son. 
"What  matters  it,"  the  old  man  answered,  "whether 
you  know  him  or  not  ?  He  certainly  knows  you.  I  |  >LW 
have  spent  a  great  deal  in  providing  instruction  for 
him  in  the  civil  law,  but  he  declares  that  he  wishes 
to  follow  in  your  footsteps.  My  fondest  hopes  have  k 
been  disappointed,  and  I  presume  that  he  will  never 
be  either  a  lawyer  or  a  poet."  At  this  neither  I  nor 
the  others  present  could  refrain  from  laughter,  and 
he  went  off  none  the  better  humoured.  But  now  I 
recognise  that  this  merriment  was  ill-timed,  and 
that  the  poor  old  man  deserved  our  consolation,  foij 
his  complaints  and  his  reproaches  were  not  un-l  /  / 
grounded.  Our  sons  formerly  employed  themselves! 
in  preparing  such  papers  as  might  be  useful  to  them- 
selves or  their  friends,  relating  to  family  affairs, 
business,  or  the  wordy  din  of  the  courts.  Now  we 
are  all  engaged  in  the  same  occupation,  and  it  is 
literally  true,  as  Horace  says,  "  learned  or  unlearned, 
we  are  all  writing  verses  alike." 

It  is  after  all  but  a  poor  consolation  to  have 
companions  in  misery.  I  should  prefer  to  be  ill  by 
myself.  Now  I  am  involved  in  others'  ill-fortune 
as  well  as  in  my  own,  and  am  hardly  given  time  to 
take  breath.  For  every  day  letters  and  poems  from 
every  corner  of  our  land  come  showering  down  upon 
my  devoted  head.  Nor  does  this  satisfy  my  foreign 
friends.  I  am  overwhelmed  by  floods  of  missives, 
no  longer  from  France  alone,  but  from  Greece, 


1 66  Petrarch 

from  Germany,  from  England.  I  am  unable  to 
judge  even  my  own  work,  and  yet  I  am  called  upon 
to  be  the  universal  critic  of  others.  Were  I  to  an- 
swer the  requests  in  detail,  I  should  be  the  busiest 
of  mortals.  If  I  condemn  the  composition,  I  am  a 
jealous  carper  at  the  good  work  of  others;  if  I  say 
a  good  word  for  the  thing,  it  is  attributed  to  a  men- 
dacious desire  to  be  agreeable;  if  I  keep  silence 
altogether,  it  is  because  I  am  a  rude,  pert  fellow. 
They  are  afraid,  I  infer,  that  my  disease  will  not 
make  way  with  me  promptly  enough.  Between  their 
goading  and  my  own  madness  I  shall  doubtless 
gratify  their  wishes. 

But  all  this  would  be  nothing  if,  incredible  as  it 
may  seem,  this  subtle  poison  had  not  just  now  begun 
to  show  its  effects  in  the  Roman  Curia  itself.  What 
do  you  think  the  lawyers  and  doctors  are  up  to  ? 
Justinian  and  ^Esculapius  have  palled  upon  them. 
The  sick  and  the  litigious  cry  in  vain  for  their  help, 
for  they  are  deafened  by  the  thunder  of  Homer's 
and  Virgil's  names,  and  wander  oblivious  in  the 
woody  valleys  of  Cirrha,  by  the  purling  waters  of 
the  Aonian  fountain.  But  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
speak  of  these  lesser  prodigies.  Even  carpenters, 
fullers,  and  ploughmen  leave  the  implements  of  their 
calling  to  talk  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses.  I  cannot 
say  how  far  the  plague,  which  lately  was  confined  to 
a  few,  has  now  spread. 

If  you  would  find  an  explanation  for  all  this,  you 
must  recollect  that  although  the  delights  of  poetry 
are  most  exquisite,  they  can  be  fully  understood 
only  by  the  rarest  geniuses,  who  are  careless  of 


Literary  Contemporaries          167 

wealth  and  possess  a  marked  contempt  for  the  things 
of  this  world,  and  who  are  by  nature  especially  en- 
dowed with  a  peculiar  elevation  and  freedom  of  soul.1 
Consequently,  as  experience  and  the  authority  of 
the  most  learned  writers  agree,  in  no  branch  of  art  can 
mere  industry  and  application  accomplish  so  little. 
Hence — and  you  may  find  it  comical  although  it  dis- 
gusts me — all  the  poets  are  nowadays  to  be  found 
on  the  street  corner,  and  we  can  descry  scarcely  one 
on  Helicon  itself.  They  are  all  nibbling  at  the  Pierian 
honeycomb,  but  no  one  can  manage  to  digest  it. 
How  delightful  indeed  must  this  gift  be  to  those  who 
really  possess  it,  when  it  can  exercise  such  a  fascina- 
tion over  sluggish  minds,  and  in  our  vain  and  de- 
generate age  can  induce  even  the  most  avaricious  to 
leave  the  pursuit  of  gain !  On  one  thing,  at  least, 
our  country  may  be  congratulated  :  in  spite  of  all  the 
tares  and  sterile  stalks  which  cumber  the  earth,  some 
signs  of  true  youthful  genius  are  to  be  discovered. 
Some,  if  I  am  not  misled  by  my  hopes,  will  not 
drink  in  vain  of  the  Castalian  spring. — I  felicitate 
thee,  Mantua,  beloved  of  the  Muses,  thee,  Padua, 
thee,  Verona,  thee,  Cimbria,3  thee,  Sulmo,  and 
thee,  Parthenope,  home  of  Maro,  when  I  see  else- 
where the  thirsty  herd  of  upstart  poetasters  wander- 
ing drearily  among  uncertain  byways ! 

It  pricks  my  conscience  that  I  should  be  responsi- 

1  /.<?.,  a  soul  able  to  free  itself  from  the  influence  of  the  mere  word 
and  perceive  the  hidden  allegorical  meaning  which  to  Petrarch  was 
the  essence  of  real  poetry.     See  below,  p.  233  sqq. 

2  This  name  is  perhaps  incorrect,  owing  to  some  error  in  the  MSS. 
upon  which  Fracassetti  based  his  edition. 


1 68  Petrarch 

ble  in  great  part  for  fostering  all  these  forms  of  liter- 
ary madness,  and  should  have  misled  others  through 
my  example, — by  no  means  the  least  of  offences.  I 
fear  lest  those  laurel  leaves,  which  in  my  eagerness  I 
tore  prematurely  from  the  branch,  may  in  a  way  be 
answerable  for  the  trouble.  While,  as  many  believe, 
they  have  been  the  means  of  bringing  true  dreams 
to  me,  they  have  caused  in  others  a  multitude  of 
delusive  visions,  which  were  allowed  to  escape  while 
all  the  world  was  asleep,  through  the  ivory  gates,  into 
the  autumnal  air.  But  never  mind,  I  suffer  for  my 
sins,  for  I  am  in  a  rage  if  I  stay  at  home,  and  yet 
hardly  dare  nowadays  to  venture  into  the  street. 
If  I  do,  wild  fellows  rush  up  from  every  side  and 
seize  upon  me,  asking  advice,  giving  me  suggestions, 
disputing  and  fighting  among  themselves.  They 
discover  meanings  in  the  poets  of  which  the  Man- 
tuan  shepherd,  or  the  old  blind  man  of  Mceonia  never 
dreamed.  I  become  more  and  more  irritated,  and 
at  last  begin  to  fear  that  I  may  be  dragged  off  before 
a  magistrate  for  breaking  the  peace. 

But  how  I  am  running  on !  I  have  spun  a  whole 
letter  out  of  mere  trifles.  .  .  .'  I  have  just 
arrived  here,2  and  will  await  you  as  long  as  I  possibly 
can.  I  know  not  whether  it  be  that  the  air  here 
renders  the  mind  less  susceptible  to  foreign  impres- 
sions, or  whether  this  "  closed  valley  "  does,  as  its 
name  indicates,  shut  out  alien  preoccupations,  but 
certain  it  is  that,  although  I  have  from  my  earliest 

1  About  a  page  is  omitted  here  relating  to  some  lucrative  or  honour- 
able appointment  which  Petrarch's  friends  were  anxious  to  obtain  for 
him.  3  /.  e.t  at  Vaucluse. 


Literary  Contemporaries          169 

manhood  spent  many  years  here,  none  of  the  in- 
habitants have  yet  become  poets  through  contagious 
contact  with  me,  with  the  sole  exception  of  one  of 
my  farm-hands.  Although  advanced  in  years  he,  as 
Persius  hath  it,  is  beginning  to  dream  on  the  two- 
peaked  Parnassus.  If  the  disease  spreads  I  am  un- 
done. Shepherds,  fishermen,  hunters,  ploughboys, 
—all  would  be  carried  away,  even  the  cows  would 
low  in  numbers  and  ruminate  sonnets.  Do  not 
forget  me.  Farewell. 
FOUNTAIN  OF  THE  SORGUE. 

The  Visit  to  the  Goldsmith  at  Bergamo 

To  Neri  Morando 1 

Enough  has  been  said  of  my  own  trifling  ex- 
periences, and  the  story  of  the  wound  inflicted  upon 
me  by  Cicero  has  reached  an  unconscionable  length.8 
But  I  will  add  another  incident  to  prove  that  Cicero 
is  not  the  only  one  who  enjoyed  the  affection  of 
those  who  had  never  seen  him.  Although  an  old 
story  to  you,  it  may  nevertheless  arouse  new  in- 
terest when  you  hear  it  again. 

From  here  I  have  always  in  sight  a  certain  Alpine 
town,  the  Italian  Pergamum,'  to  distinguish  it  from 
an  Asiatic  city  of  the  same  name,  which,  as  you 

1  Fam.,  xxi.,  n.     The  events  here  narrated  probably  occurred  in 

1359- 

3  Petrarch  had  just  finished  one  letter  to  Morando,  in  which  he 
had  told  him  of  a  wound  received  on  the  heel  from  a  great  copy  of 
Cicero's  works,  which  had  fallen  down  and  struck  him. 

1  Bergamo. 


1 70  Petrarch 

know,  was  once  the  capital  of  Attalus,  who  be- 
queathed  his  possessions  to  Rome.  In  our  Perga- 
mum  there  lives  a  certain  man,  who,  while  he  has 
but  a  slight  knowledge  of  literature,  possesses  a 
good  mind, — had  he  earlier  applied  himself  to  study. 
By  profession  he  is  a  goldsmith,  remarkably  success- 
ful in  the  practice  of  his  art;  he  enjoys  moreover 
the  best  gift  that  nature  can  bestow,  for  he  is  an 
admirer  and  lover  of  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful. 
The  gold  in  which  he  works,  and  other  forms  of 
worldly  wealth,  appeal  to  him  only  in  so  far  as  they 
are  means  to  higher  ends.  This  old  man,  having 
heard  of  me  by  reputation,  was  immediately  seized 
with  a  most  ardent  desire  to  win  my  friendship. 

It  would  be  a  long  story  were  I  to  recount  all  the 
devices  he  used  in  order  to  gratify  this  modest 
wish.  By  constant,  courteous  attentions  and  com- 
pliments to  me  and  to  those  about  me,  he  at  last 
succeeded  in  his  ardent  efforts  to  bridge  the  chasm 
between  us.  While  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  I 
knew  his  name  and  object,  indeed  his  longing  was 
plainly  depicted  in  his  face  and  expression.  No  one 
surely  would  have  been  so  rude  and  surly  as  to  refuse 
to  see  him  under  the  circumstances.  How  could 
I  have  done  otherwise  ?  I  was  completely  van- 
quished by  the  man's  attractive  countenance  and 
his  sincere  and  persistent  attentions,  and  received 
him  with  hearty  and  unreserved  good-will ;  indeed, 
it  would  have  been  inhuman  to  have  rejected  such 
proofs  of  genuine  affection.  His  exultation  and 
pride  were  at  once  obvious  in  every  accent  and  ges- 
ture. He  seemed  to  have  reached  the  very  summit 


Literary  Contemporaries          171 

of  his  fondest  hopes  and  to  be  metamorphosed  by 
his  joy. 

He  began  long  ago  to  spend  no  small  part  of 
his  patrimony  in  my  honour.  In  every  corner  of 
his  house  he  placed  the  arms,  name,  and  portrait 
of  his  new  friend,  whose  face  was  even  more  deeply 
graven  in  his  heart.  Another  portion  of  his  wealth 
he  devoted  to  procuring  copies  of  anything  of  mine 
which  he  could  get  hold  of,  no  matter  what  might 
be  its  character.  I  could  not  be  very  hard-hearted 
when  it  came  to  letting  so  enthusiastic  and  novel  a 
collector  have  what  I  certainly  would  have  denied  a 
man  of  more  consequence.  He  moreover  gradually 
weaned  himself  from  his  previous  life,  habits,  and 
interests,  and  so  completely  altered  his  whole  former 
self  as  to  be  a  source  of  utter  astonishment  to  his 
friends. 

In  one  matter,  however,  he  refused  to  be  guided 
by  me,  and,  in  spite  of  my  opposition  and  frequent 
admonitions  that  he  should  not,  at  so  late  a  day,  ex- 
change his  customary  vocations  for  a  life  of  study, 
he  finally  left  his  shop  and  began  to  frequent  the 
schools  and  cultivate  teachers  of  the  liberal  arts. 
He  took  the  greatest  delight  in  his  new  life  and  was 
extremely  sanguine  as  to  the  results.  I  cannot  say 
how  he  actually  got  along,  but  he  certainly  merited 
the  highest  degree  of  success  in  his  fond  undertak- 
ing. No  one  could  have  shown  greater  ardour  in  a 
good  cause,  or  more  contempt  for  the  less  worthy 
objects  of  desire.  He  was  at  least  equipped  with 
a  good  mind  and  great  enthusiasm,  and  could  find 
plenty  of  teachers  in  his  city.  His  age  seemed  to 


i72  Petrarch 

be  the  only  obstacle,  although  I  well  know  that  Plato 
took  up  the  study  of  philosophy  late  in  life,  and 
Cato  made  no  little  progress  in  Greek  literature 
when  he  was  already  an  old  man.  Perhaps  it  is  but 
right  that  this  man  should  for  this  very  reason  find 
a  niche  in  some  of  my  works.  So  I  will  add  that  he 
is  called  Henry,  his  surname  being  Capra,1  a  most 
energetic  and  lively  animal,  fond  of  leaves  and  al- 
ways climbing  upwards.  For  these  reasons  Varro 
believes  that  the  name  is,  by  a  transposition  of 
letters,  derived  from  this  animal's  tendency  to 
nibble  twigs,  and  certainly  carpa  and  capra  are  not 
very  unlike.  If  anyone  ever  deserved  the  name  it 
is  our  friend,  who,  if  he  had  got  at  the  woods  in  the 
morning  would  have  returned  with  a  full  paunch 
and  plenty  of  milk.  All  this  you  yourself  have 
heard  often  enough,  but  I  tell  it  for  the  benefit  of 
others."  The  rest  of  my  story  you  do  not  yet 
know. 

This  fellow,  whose  character  and  devotion  to  me 
I  have  so  carefully  portrayed,  had  long  been  urging 
me  to  honour  him  and  his  lares  with  a  visit,  and  by  a 
sojourn  of  at  least  a  single  day  to  render  him,  as  he 
put  it,  happy  and  renowned  to  all  future  generations. 
I  continued,  however,  not  without  difficulty,  to 
postpone  his  desire  for  several  years.  But  at  last, 
influenced  by  the  nearness  of  the  place,  and  over- 

1  Namely,  she-goat. 

*  ...  sed  noscenda  aliis  dicta  sint.  Petrarch  always  wished 
his  letters  to  be  complete  even  at  the  risk  of  repetition.  We  have 
here  a  frank  confession  that  he  was  not  writing  for  the  benefit  of  the 
friend  alone  to  whom  the  letter  was  addressed.  Fracassetti  has  per- 
versely translated  this  passage,  odi  adesso  quel  che  ancora  non  sat. 


Literary  Contemporaries          173 

come  not  only  by  prayers  but  by  objurations  and 
tears,  I  consented  to  accompany  him,  in  spite  of  the 
objections  of  my  more  haughty  friends,  to  whom  he 
seemed  unworthy  of  the  honour. 

I  reached  Bergamo  on  the  evening  of  October 
thirteenth.  My  host  had  accompanied  me  the 
whole  of  the  way,  and,  in  constant  fear  lest  I  might 
perhaps  change  my  mind,  he  and  those  with  him 
exerted  all  their  powers  of  invention  to  discover 
topics  of  conversation  which  might  make  the  way 
less  wearisome.  Thus  we  traversed  a  short  and 
easy  road  without  fatigue.  A  few  gentlemen  had 
accompanied  me  with  the  special  purpose  of  finding 
out  what  this  enthusiastic  person  might  have  in 
store. 

Well,  when  we  approached  the  town  I  was  cordially 
received  by  friends  who  had  come  out  to  meet  me. 
They,  with  the  Podesta,  the  Captain  of  the  People, 
and  other  local  magistrates,  vied  with  each  other  in 
urging  me  to  put  up  at  the  palazzo  or  at  some 
gentleman's  house.  All  this  time  my  poor  gold- 
smith was  trembling  for  fear  I  might  give  in  to  such 
insistence.  But  I  did  what  I  believed  to  be  proper 
under  the  circumstances,  and  alighted  with  my  com- 
panions at  the  house  of  my  more  humble  friend. 
There  I  was  received  with  great  pomp,  and  sat  down 
to  a  kingly  banquet  rather  than  to  the  good  cheer 
of  an  artisan  or  philosopher.  My  couch  of  purple 
was  spread  in  a  room  glittering  with  gold,  where, 
as  my  host  swore  by  all  that  was  holy,  no  one  else 
had  ever  slept  or  ever  would  sleep.  The  books  I 
found  were  not  technical,  but  such  as  would  be 


1 74  Petrarch 

dear  to  a  student  and  a  lover  of  good  literature. 
Here  I  passed  the  night.  Certainly  no  one  ever 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  so  delighted  a  host.  In 
fact  his  delight  was  so  great  that  his  friends  began 
to  fear  for  his  sanity,  or  lest,  as  has  happened  to 
not  a  few,  he  should  actually  die  of  joy. 

The  next  day  I  departed,  loaded  with  honours 
and  surrounded  by  a  great  crowd.  The  Podesta 
and  many  others  whose  society  I  did  not  care  for 
accompanied  me  much  farther  on  my  way  than  was 
agreeable.  It  was  late  before  I  had  finally  shaken 
off  my  fervid  host  and  was  again  at  my  country 
place. 

You  have  now  heard,  good  Neri,  what  I  had  in 
mind  to  tell  you,  and  this  nocturnal  epistle  must 
come  to  an  end, — for  my  anxiety  to  get  my  letter 
done  has  kept  me  writing  straight  on  until  nearly 
dawn.  I  am  weary  now  and  the  morning  quiet 
invites  me  to  enjoy  the  best  part  of  the  night  for 
slumber.  Farewell,  remember  your  friend. 

Written  with  a  rural  pen,  just  before  light,  on 
October  15. 


The  three  following  letters  furnish  a  very 
clear  expression  of  Petrarch's  feelings  towards 
the  Italian  language  and  his  great  collaborat- 
ors in  its  formation,  Dante  and  Boccaccio. 

Grieved  by  a  certain  indifference  which  his 
friend  exhibited  towards  Dante,  Boccaccio,  soon 
after  his  return  from  a  visit  to  Petrarch,  sent 


Literary  Contemporaries          175 

t 

him  a  copy  of  the  Divine  Comedy}- '  Accom- 
panying the  volume  was  a  Latin  poem,  in  which 
he  requested  that  Petrarch  read  the  work  of  his 
distinguished  fellow-citizen  and  place  it  among 
his  other  books.2 

The  letter  that  Petrarch  wrote  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  gift  is  one  of  the  most  import- 
ant in  his  correspondence.  Strangely  enough, 
there  are  but  two  in  all  the  vast  collection  of 
prose  letters  in  which  he  makes  any  allusions  to 
Dante,  and  then  never  by  name.  In  one  of  his 
lesser  works  he  narrates  one  or  two  anecdotes 
of  Dante's  brusqueness  towards  the  despots 
whose  hospitality  he  enjoyed.3  It  is  neverthe- 

1  A  MS.  of  the  Divine  Comedy  in  the  Vatican  has,  it  would  ap- 
pear, been  at  last  satisfactorily  proven  to  be  the  very  one  which 
Boccaccio  sent.  See  Pakscher's  scholarly  paper  in  Zeitschrift  fur 
romanische  Philologie,  vol.  x.,  p.  226  sqq.  De  Nolhac  has  reached 
the  same  conclusion  ;  cf.  La  Bibliotheque  de  Fulvio  Orsini,  p.  304. 

8  The  little  poem  closes  with  the  lines  : 

"  Hunc  oro,  mi  care  nimis  spesque  unica  nostrum, 

Concivem  doctumque  satis  pariterque  poetam 
Suscipe,  junge  tuis,  lauda,  cole,  perlege.     Nam  si 
Feceris  hoc,  magnis,  et  te  decorabis  et  ilium 
Laudibus,  O  nostrae  eximium  decus  urbis  et  orbis." 
Corazzini,  Le  Lettere  di  Boccaccio^  p.  54.     Also  in  Fracassetti's  Let. 
delle  Cos.  Fatn.,  iv.,  pp.  399,  400. 

3  "  Rerum  Memorandum,"  Opera,  p.  427.  The  misprints  in  the 
Basle  editions  give  the  anecdotes  an  ill-natured  turn  which  Petrarch 
did  not  intend.  The  opening  of  the  passage  should  read :  Dante 
Alqherius  et  ipse  concivus  nuper  meus,  vir  vulgari  eloquio  clarissi- 
mus  fuit  sed  moribus parumper  contumacior  [the  Basle  editions  have 
parum  per  contumaciam]  et  oratione  liberior  quam  delicatis  et  fastid- 


1 76  Petrarch 

less  probably  unfair  to  accuse  Petrarch  of  jeal- 
ousy. In  the  first  place,  the  assumption  that 
he  had  never  read  the  Divine  Comedy  is  hardly 
justifiable.  It  is  true  that  he  did  not  possess  a 
copy  of  the  work,  and  that  Boccaccio  urged  him 
to  read  and  cherish  it.  But  he  must  assuredly 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  an 
author  whom  he  declared  to  be  without  ques- 
tion the  greatest  master  of  the  vernacular. 
The  reader  can,  however,  reach  his  own  con- 
clusions, as  all  the  data  which  we  have  are 
given  below.  He  should  remember  that  Pe- 
trarch was  placed  in  a  trying  position.  It  is 
impossible  to  appear  wholly  unconstrained  and 
natural  when  one  is  meeting  the  charge  of  jeal- 
ousy towards  a  popular  contemporary.  Then, 
a  scholar  or  an  author  may  not  be  completely 
or  enthusiastically  in  sympathy  with  some  of  his 
fellow-workers  to  whom  he  would  nevertheless 
accord  a  very  high  rank.  We  may  safely  infer 
that  Petrarch  was  not  drawn  towards  Dante,  al- 
though he  frankly  acknowledged  his  greatness. 
The  two  men  had  much  in  common,  their 
Christian  humanism  for  example,1  but  Dante's 

iosis  (ztatis  nostrce  principum  auribus  atque  oculis  acceptum  fuit, 
etc.  See  Hortis,  Studi  sulle  Opcre  Latine  del  Boccaccio,  Trieste, 
1879,  p.  303. 

1  See  the  close  of  the  fourth  canto  of  the  "  Inferno,"  and  especially 
the  Convito,  iv..  ch.  4. 


Literary  Contemporaries          177 

devotion  to  mediaeval  theology  and  science 
must  have  repelled  the  younger  poet,  whose 
studies  were  exclusively  literary,  including  per- 
haps moral  philosophy  and  history,  but  utterly 
foreign  to  the  lucubrations  of  Peter  Lombard 
or  Thomas  Aquinas.  An  able  I  talian  critic l  has 
suggested  that  we  may  find  an  analogy  between 
Petrarch's  attitude  toward  Dante,  and  that  of 
Erasmus  toward  Luther,  or  Voltaire' s  toward 
Rousseau.  Once,  when  but  eight  years  old,  he 
had  seen  the  dark,  emaciated  poet  of  the  Ghi- 
bellines.  The  harsh  manner  and  the  haughty 
profile  of  the  man  may,  as  Carducci  says,  have 
impressed  the  rosy  youngster  with  fear  and 
created  a  feeling  of  dislike  which  he  did  not 
entirely  outgrow. 

The  second  letter  to  Boccaccio  upon  the  Ital- 
ian poets  was  written  some  five  years  after  the 
one  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  and  a  dif- 
ference in  the  tone  of  the  references  to  Dante 
is  perhaps  perceptible.  The  Trionfi,  the  latest 
of  Petrarch's  Italian  poems,  somewhat  resemble 
in  style  the  Divine  Comedy,  and  were  perhaps 
written  partly  with  the  aim  of  showing  that  he 
could  rise  to  the  same  high  strain. 

Petrarch  entertained  much  less  regard  for 
the  vulgar  tongue  than  Dante  and  Boccaccio, 

1  Carducci,  Studi  Letter ari,  2d  ed.,  p.  334. 


1 78  Petrarch 

because  more  completely  engrossed  by  the 
strength  of  the  Latin.  To  him  "  prose  and 
verse,"  as  we  shall  see,  meant  compositions  in 
Latin,  which  was  alone  adapted  to  the  highest 
purposes  of  expression.  From  his  scornful 
treatment  of  the  Italian  language  the  reader 
will  naturally  turn  to  the  first  book  of  Dante's 
Convito}  or  to  his  little  treatise,  The  Vernacular 
(De  Vulgari  Eloquio),  where  the  advantages 
and  weaknesses  of  the  mother  tongue  are  sym- 
pathetically discussed. 

PetrarcJis  Disclaims  all  Jealousy  of  Dante 

To  Boccaccio a 

There  are  many  things  in  your  letter  which  do  not 
require  any  answer;  those,  for  example,  which  we 
have  lately  settled  face  to  face.  Two  points  there 
were,  however,  which  it  seemed  to  me  should  not 
be  passed  over  in  silence,  and  I  will  briefly  write 
down  such  reflections  concerning  them  as  may  occur 
to  me.  In  the  first  place,  you  excuse  yourself  with 
some  heat  for  seeming  to  praise  unduly  a  certain 
poet,  a  fellow-citizen  of  ours,  who  in  point  of  style 
is  very  popular,  and  who  has  certainly  chosen  a 
noble  theme.  You  beg  my  pardon  for  this,  as  if  I 
regarded  anything  said  in  his,  or  anyone  else's 
praise,  as  detracting  from  my  own.  You  assert,  for 

1  The  best  edition  is  that  of  Dr.  Moore  (Clarendon  Press,  Oxford) 
*  Fam.,  xxi.,  15  (probably  written  in  1359). 


Literary  Contemporaries          179 

instance,  that  if  I  will  only  look  closely  at  what  you 
say  of  him,  I  shall  find  that  it  all  reflects  glory  upon 
me.  You  take  pains  to  explain,  in  extenuation 
of  your  favourable  attitude  towards  him,  that  he 
was  your  first  light  and  guide  in  your  early  studies. 
Your  praise  is  certainly  only  a  just  and  dutiful  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  services,  an  expression  of  what 
I  may  call  filial  piety.  If  we  owe  all  to  those  who  be- 
got and  brought  us  forth,  and  much  to  those  who 
are  the  authors  of  our  fortunes,  what  shall  we  say  of 
our  debt  to  the  parents  and  fashioners  of  our  minds  ? 
How  much  more,  indeed,  is  due  to  those  who  refine 
the  mind  than  to  those  who  tend  the  body,  he  will 
perceive  who  assigns  to  each  its  just  value;  for  the 
one,  it  will  be  seen,  is  an  immortal  gift,  the  other, 
corruptible  and  destined  to  pass  away. 

Continue,  then,  not  by  my  sufferance  simply,  but 
with  my  approbation,  to  extol  and  cherish  this  poet, 
the  guiding  star  of  your  intellect,  who  has  afforded 
you  courage  and  light  in  the  arduous  way  by 
which  you  are  pressing  stoutly  on  towards  a  most 
glorious  goal.  He  has  long  been  buffeted  and 
wearied  by  the  windy  plaudits  of  the  multitude. 
Honour  him  now  and  exalt  him  by  sincere  praise 
worthy  alike  of  you  and  of  him,  and,  you  may  be 
sure,  not  unpleasing  to  me.  He  is  worthy  of  such 
a  herald,  while  you,  as  you  say,  are  the  natural  one 
to  assume  the  office.  I  therefore  accept  your  song 
of  praise  with  all  my  heart,  and  join  with  you  in 
extolling  the  poet  you  celebrate  therein.1 

1  This  refers  to  the  poem,  spoken  of  above,  with  which  Boccaccio 
accompanied  his  copy  of  Dante. 


i8o  Petrarch 

Hence  there  was  nothing  in  your  letter  of  explan- 
ation to  disturb  me  except  the  discovery  that  I  am 
still  so  ill  understood  by  you  who,  as  I  firmly  be- 
lieved, knew  me  thoroughly.  You  think,  then,  that 
I  do  not  take  pleasure  in  the  praises  of  illustri- 
ous men  and  glory  in  them  ?  Believe  me,  nothing 
is  more  foreign  to  me  than  jealousy;  there  is  no 
scourge  of  which  I  know  less.  On  the  contrary,  in 
order  that  you  may  see  how  far  I  am  from  such 
feelings,  I  call  upon  Him  before  whom  all  hearts 
are  open  to  witness  that  few  things  in  life  have 
caused  me  more  pain  than  to  see  the  meritorious 
passed  by,  utterly  without  recognition  or  reward. 
Not  that  I  am  deploring  my  own  lot,  or  looking  for 
personal  gain;  I  am  mourning  the  common  fate  of 
mankind,  as  I  behold  the  reward  of  the  nobler  arts 
falling  to  the  meaner.  I  am  not  unaware  that  al- 
though the  reputation  which  attaches  to  right  con- 
duct may  stimulate  the  mind  to  deserve  it,  true  virtue 
is,  as  the  philosophers  say,  a  stimulus  to  itself;  it  is 
its  own  reward,  its  own  guide,  its  own  end  and  aim. 
Nevertheless,  now  that  you  have  yourself  suggested 
a  theme  which  I  should  not  voluntarily  have  chosen, 
I  shall  proceed  to  refute  for  you,  and  through  you  for 
others,  the  commonly  accepted  notion  of  my  judg- 
ment of  this  poet.  It  is  not  only  false,  as  Quintilian 
says  of  the  construction  put  upon  his  criticism  of 
Seneca,1  but  it  is  insidious  and,  with  many,  out-and- 

1  Quintilian's  strictures  on  Seneca's  style  had  given  rise  to  the 
opinion  that  he  not  only  disapproved  of  Seneca's  works,  but  hated 
him  personally.  He  refutes  (Institutes,  x. ,  i)  that  ' '  vulgatam  falso  de 
me  opinionem,  qua  damnare  eum  [sc.  Senecam]  et  invisum  quoque 


Literary  Contemporaries          181 

out  malevolent.  My  enemies  say  that  I  hate  and 
despise  him,  and  in  this  way  stir  up  the  common 
herd  against  me,  for  with  them  he  is  extremely 
popular.  This  is  indeed  a  novel  kind  of  perversity, 
and  shows  a  marvellous  aptitude  for  harming  others. 
But  truth  herself  shall  defend  me. 

In  the  first  place,  there  can  be  no  possible  cause 
for  ill-will  towards  a  man  whom  I  never  saw  but 
once,  and  that  in  my  very  earliest  childhood.  He 
lived  with  my  grandfather  and  my  father,1  being 
younger  than  the  former,  but  older  than  my  father, 
with  whom,  on  the  same  day  and  by  the  same  civil 
commotion,  he  was  driven  from  his  country  into 
exile.  At  such  a  time  strong  friendships  are  often 
formed  between  companions  in  misery.  This  proved 
especially  true  of  these  two  men,  since  in  their  case 
not  only  a  similar  fate  but  a  community  of  taste 
and  a  love  for  the  same  studies,  served  to  bring 
them  together.  My  father,  however,  forced  by 
other  cares  and  by  regard  for  his  family,  succumbed 
to  the  natural  influences  of  exile,  while  his  friend 
resisted,  throwing  himself,  indeed,  with  even  greater 
ardour  into  what  he  had  undertaken,  neglecting 
everything  else  and  desirous  alone  of  future  fame. 

habere  sum  creditus."  This  naturally  seemed  to  Petrarch  a  very 
exact  analogy  to  the  charges  of  jealousy  brought  against  him. 

1  Cum  avo  patreque  meo  vixit.  The  reader  is  left  to  conjecture 
how  intimate  Dante  and  Petracco  may  have  been  when  they  lived 
together  in  Florence.  Petrarch,  in  a  reference  to  his  father  in  Sen., 
x.,  2,  would  lead  us  to  infer  that  he  was  born  about  1252,  twelve  or 
thirteen  years  before  Dante.  There  seems  to  be  no  means  of  decid- 
ing whether  that  statement  or  the  one  given  in  this  letter,  which 
makes  Dante  the  older,  is  nearer  the  truth. 


1 82  Petrarch 

In  this  I  can  scarce  admire  and  praise  him  enough, 
— that  neither  the  injustice  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
nor  exile,  nor  poverty,  nor  the  attacks  of  his  ene- 
mies, neither  the  love  of  wife,  nor  solicitude  for  his 
children,  could  divert  him  from  the  path  he  had 
once  decided  upon,  when  so  many  who  are  highly 
endowed  are  yet  so  weak  of  purpose  that  they  are 
swerved  from  their  course  by  the  least  disturbance. 
And  this  most  often  happens  to  writers  of  verse,  for 
silence  and  quiet  are  especially  requisite  for  those 
who  have  to  care  not  only  for  the  thought  and  the 
words  but  the  felicitous  turn  as  well.  Thus  you 
will  see  that  my  supposed  hate  for  this  poet,  which 
has  been  trumped  up  by  I  know  not  whom,  is  an 
odious  and  ridiculous  invention,  since  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  reason  for  such  repugnance,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  every  reason  for  partiality,  on  account  of 
our  common  country,  his  friendship  with  my  father, 
his  genius,  and  his  style,  the  best  of  its  kind,  which 
must  always  raise  him  far  above  contempt. 

This  brings  us  to  the  second  reproach  cast  upon 
me,  which  is  based  upon  the  fact  that,  although  in 
my  early  years  I  was  very  eager  in  my  search  for 
books  of  all  kinds,  I  never  possessed  a  copy  of  this 
poet's  work,  which  would  naturally  have  attracted 
me  most  at  that  age.  While  exceedingly  anxious 
to  obtain  other  books  which  I  had  little  hope  of 
finding,  I  showed  a  strange  indifference,  quite  foreign 
to  me,  towards  this  one,  although  it  was  readily  pro- 
curable. •  The  fact  I  admit,  but  I  deny  the  motives 
which  are  urged  by  my  enemies.  At  that  time  I  too 
was  devoting  my  powers  to  compositions  in  the 


Literary  Contemporaries          183 

vernacular;  I  was  convinced  that  nothing  could  be 
finer,  and  had  not  yet  learned  to  look  higher.  I 
feared,  however,  in  view  of  the  impressionableness 
of  youth  and  its  readiness  to  admire  everything, 
that,  if  I  should  imbue  myself  with  his  or  any  other 
writer's  verses,  I  might  perhaps  unconsciously  and 
against  my  will  come  to  be  an  imitator.  In  the 
ardour  of  youth  this  thought  filled  me  with  aversion. 
Such  was  my  self-confidence  and  enthusiasm  that  I 
deemed  my  own  powers  quite  sufficient,  without  any 
mortal  aid,  to  produce  an  original  style  all  my  own, 
in  the  species  of  production  upon  which  I  was  en- 
gaged. It  is  for  others  to  judge  whether  I  was  right 
in  this.  But  I  must  add  that  if  anything  should  be 
discovered  in  my  Italian  writings  resembling,  or 
even  identical  with,  what  has  been  said  by  him  or 
others,  it  cannot  be  attributed  to  secret  or  conscious 
imitation.  This  rock  I  have  always  endeavoured  to 
avoid,  especially  in  my  writings  in  the  vernacular, 
although  it  is  possible  that,  either  by  accident  or, 
as  Cicero  says,  owing  to  similar  ways  of  thinking,  I 
may  ignorantly  have  traversed  the  same  path  as 
others.1  If  you  ever  believe  me,  believe  me  now; 
accept  this  as  the  real  explanation  of  my  conduct. 
Nothing  can  be  more  strictly  true;  and  if  my  mod- 
esty and  sense  of  propriety  did  not  seem  to  you 
sufficient  to  vouch  for  this,  my  youthful  pride  at 
any  rate  certainly  might  have  explained  it. 

To-day,  however,  I  have  left  these  anxieties  far 

1  This  matter  of  plagiarism  is  a  subject  to  which  Petrarch  often 
reverts  in  his  letters.  He  realised  the  difiiculty  of  producing  anything 
essentially  new  after  the  great  works  of  classical  antiquity. 


1 84  Petrarch 

behind,  and,  having  done  so,  I  am  freed  from  my 
former  apprehension,  and  can  now  unreservedly  ad- 
mire other  writers,  him  above  all.  At  that  time  I 
was  submitting  work  of  my  own  to  the  verdict  of 
others,  whereas  now  I  am  merely  passing  my  own 
silent  verdicts  upon  my  fellows.  I  find  that  my  opin- 
ion varies  as  regards  all  the  rest,  but  in  his  case  there 
can  be  no  room  for  doubt ;  without  hesitation  I  yield 
him  the  palm  for  skill  in  the  use  of  the  vulgar  tongue. 
They  lie,  then,  who  assert  that  I  carp  at  his  renown  ; 
I,  who  probably  understand  better  than  the  major- 
ity of  these  foolish  and  immoderate  admirers  of  his 
what  it  is  that  merely  tickles  their  ears,  without 
their  knowing  why,  but  cannot  penetrate  their  thick 
heads,  because  the  avenues  of  intelligence  are  ob- 
structed. They  belong  to  the  same  class  that  Cicero 
brands  in  his  Rhetoric,  who  "  read  fine  orations  or 
beautiful  poems,  and  praise  the  orators  or  poets,  and 
yet  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  has  aroused  their 
admiration,  for  they  lack  the  ability  to  see  where  the 
thing  is  that  most  pleases  them,  or  what  it  is,  or  how 
it  is  produced."  If  this  happens  with  Demosthenes 
and  Cicero,  Homer  and  Virgil,  among  learned  men 
and  in  the  schools,  how  will  it  fare  with  our  poet 
among  the  rude  fellows  who  frequent  the  taverns 
and  public  squares  ? 

As  for  me,  far  from  scorning  his  work,  I  admire 
and  love  him,  and  in  justice  to  myself  I  may  venture 
to  add  that  if  he  had  been  permitted  to  live  until 
this  time  he  would  have  found  few  friends  more 
devoted  to  him  than  myself,  provided,  of  course, 
that  I  had  found  his  character  as  attractive  as  his 
genius.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  none  to 


Literary  Contemporaries          185 

whom  he  would  have  been  more  obnoxious  than 
these  same  silly  admirers,  who,  in  general,  know 
equally  little  about  what  they  praise  and  what  they 
condemn,  and  who  so  mispronounce  and  lacerate 
his  verses  that  they  do  him  the  greatest  injury  that 
a  poet  can  suffer.  I  might  even  strive  to  the  best 
of  my  powers  to  rescue  him  from  this  abuse,  did  not 
my  own  productions  give  me  enough  to  think  about. 
As  it  is,  I  can  only  give  voice  to  my  irritation,  when 
I  hear  the  common  herd  befouling  with  their  stupid 
mouths  the  noble  beauty  of  his  lines. 

Just  here  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  say  that 
this  was  not  the  least  of  the  considerations  which 
led  me  to  give  up  a  style  of  composition  to  which  I 
devoted  myself  in  my  early  years.  I  feared  for  my 
writings  the  same  fate  which  I  had  seen  overtake 
those  of  others,  especially  those  of  the  poet  of 
whom  we  are  speaking.  I  could  not  in  my  own 
case  look  for  more  musical  tongues  or  more  flexible 
minds  among  the  common  people  than  I  noted  in 
the  rendering  of  those  authors  whom  long  favour 
and  habit  have  made  popular  in  the  theatres  and 
public  squares.  That  my  apprehensions  were  not 
idle  is  clear  from  the  fact  that  I  am  continually 
tortured  by  the  tongues  of  the  people,  as  they 
sing  the  few  productions  which  I  allowed  to  escape 
me  in  my  youth.  I  indignantly  reject  and  hate 
what  I  once  loved  ;  and  day  by  day  walk  the 
streets  with  vexation  and  execrate  my  own  talents. 
Everywhere  a  crowd  of  ignorant  fellows,  every- 
where I  find  my  Damoetas  ready  at  the  street  cor- 
ner "  to  murder  with  his  screeching  reed  "  my  poor 
song. 


1 86  Petrarch 

However,  I  have  already  said  more  than  enough 
concerning  a  trifling  matter  which  I  ought  not  to 
have  taken  so  seriously,  for  this  hour,  which  will 
never  return,  should  have  been  devoted  to  other 
things.  And  yet  your  excuse  did  seem  to  me  to 
have  just  a  little  in  common  with  the  accusations  of 
these  critics,  some  of  whom  are  constantly  asserting 
that  I  hate,  some  that  I  despise,  this  person, — whose 
name  I  have  intentionally  refrained  to-day  from 
mentioning,  lest  the  mob,  who  catch  up  everything 
without  understanding  it,  should  cry  out  that  I  was 
defaming  it.  Others  again  claim  that  I  am  actuated 
by  envy ; — men  who  are  jealous  of  me  and  my  fame ; 
for,  although  I  scarcely  am  an  object  for  envy,  I 
yet  have  noticed  late  in  life  that  there  are  those 
who  entertain  this  feeling  towards  me,  a  thing  that 
at  one  time  I  could  not  have  believed  possible.  In 
answer  to  this  charge  of  envy  brought  against  me, 
I  might  reply  that,  many  years  ago,  in  the  ardour 
of  youth,  and  with  an  approving  conscience,  I  ven- 
tured to  assert,  not  in  any  ordinary  manner,  but 
in  a  poem  addressed  to  a  certain  illustrious  per- 
sonage, that  I  envied  no  man.1  Suppose,  though, 
that  I  am  not  worthy  of  belief.  Still,  even  then, 
what  probability  is  there  that  I  should  be  jealous  of 
a  writer  who  devoted  his  whole  life  to  those  things 

1  This  is  probably  a  reference,  as  M.  Develay  suggests,  to  a  metrical 
epistle  addressed  to  Giacomo  Colonna,  the  Bishop  of  Lombez,  in 
which  the  following  lines  occur  : 

Nil  usquam  invideo,  nulluni  ferventius  odi, 
Nullutn  despicio  nisi  me.     .     .     . 


Literary  Contemporaries          187 

which  with  me  were  but  the  flower  and  first-fruits 
of  my  youth.  What  to  him  was,  if  not  his  only  oc- 
cupation, certainly  the  supreme  object  of  his  life,  to 
me  was  mere  sport,  a  pastime,  the  first  essay  of  my 
powers.1 

What  occasion  is  there  here  for  rancour  ?  What 
ground  is  there  for  even  a  suspicion  of  jealousy  ? 
When  you  say,  in  praising  him,  that  he  might  have 
devoted  himself  to  another  kind  of  composition,  had 
he  wished,  I  heartily  agree  with  you.  I  have  the 
highest  opinion  of  his  ability,  for  it  is  obvious  from 
what  he  has  done  that  he  would  have  succeeded  in 
anything  he  might  have  chosen  to  undertake.  But 
suppose  that  he  had  turned  his  powers  in  another 
direction,  and  successfully  —  what  then  ?  What 
would  there  be  in  that  to  make  me  jealous  ?  Why 
should  it  not  rather  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to 
me  ?  Who  indeed  could  excite  envy  in  me,  who  do 
not  envy  even  Virgil  ? — unless  perhaps  I  should  be 
jealous  of  the  hoarse  applause  which  our  poet  enjoys 
from  the  tavern-keepers,  fullers,  butchers,  and  others 
of  that  class,  who  dishonour  those  whom  they  would 
praise.  But,  far  from  desiring  such  popular  recog- 
nition, I  congratulate  myself,  on  the  contrary,  that, 
along  with  Virgil  and  Homer,  I  am  free  from  it, 
inasmuch  as  I  fully  realise  how  little  the  plaudits 
of  the  unschooled  multitude  weigh  with  scholars. 
Should  it  be  suggested  that  the  citizen  of  Mantua 
is,  when  all  is  said,  dearer  to  me  than  my  fellow-citi- 
zen of  Florence,  I  must  urge  that,  although  I  will 

1  Namely,  literary  productions  in  the  Italian  tongue. 


1 88  Petrarch 

not  deny  that  jealousy  does  flourish  most  rankly 
between  neighbours,  the  mere  fact  of  common  origin 
cannot  by  itself  justify  such  an  inference.  Indeed 
the  simple  fact  of  our  belonging  to  different  genera- 
tions  would  make  this  latter  supposition  absurd,  for 
as  one  has  elegantly  said,  who  never  speaks  other- 
wise than  elegantly,  "  The  dead  are  neither  hated 
nor  envied." 

You  will  accept  my  solemn  affirmation  that  I  de- 
light in  both  the  thought  and  style  of  our  poet,  nor 
do  I  ever  refer  to  him  except  with  the  greatest  admira- 
tion. It  is  true  that  I  have  sometimes  said  to  those 
who  wished  to  know  precisely  what  I  thought,  that 
his  style  was  unequal,  for  he  rises  to  a  higher  plane 
of  excellence  in  the  vernacular  than  in  poetry  and 
prose.1  But  you  will  not  deny  this,  nor  will  it, 
if  rightly  understood,  carry  with  it  any  disparage- 
ment of  his  fame  and  glory.  Who,  indeed — I  will 
not  say  at  the  present  time,  when  eloquence  has 
so  long  been  mourned  as  dead,  but  at  the  time  when 
it  flourished  most — who,  I  say,  ever  excelled  in  all 
its  various  branches  ?  Witness  Seneca's  Declama- 
tions /*  No  one  dreams  of  attributing  inexhaustible 
versatility  even  to  Cicero,  Virgil,  Sallust,  or  Plato. 
Who  would  lay  claim  to  a  degree  of  praise  which 

1  Quod  in  vulgar!  eloquio,  quam  in  carminibus  aut  prosa  clarior 
atque  altior  assurgit.     The  literal  form  is  retained  in  the  rendering 
above,  as  Petrarch's  very  language  is  significant  of  his  contempt  for 
the  Italian.     Prose  and  verse  could  only  be  Latin. 

2  The  work  here  referred   to,  which  Petrarch  supposed  to  be  an 
inferior  production  of  Seneca  the  Philosopher,  is  now  attributed  to 
his  father,  the  Rhetor,  of  whose  existence  Petrarch  was  unaware. 


Literary  Contemporaries          189 

must  be  denied  even  to  such  genius  ?  It  is  enough 
to  have  excelled  in  one  kind  of  composition.  This 
being  true,  let  those  be  silent  who  attempt  to  twist 
my  words  into  calumnies,  and  let  those  who  have 
believed  my  calumniators  read  here,  if  they  will,  my 
opinion  of  them. 

Having  disposed  thus  of  one  matter  which  has  been 
troubling  me,  I  come  now  to  a  second.  You  thank 
me  for  my  solicitude  for  your  health.  While  you 
do  this  from  courtesy,  and  in  accordance  with  con- 
ventional usage,  you  well  know  that  such  acknow- 
ledgment is  quite  unnecessary.  For  who  is  ever 
thanked  for  his  interest  in  himself,  or  his  own  affairs  ? 
and  you,  dear  friend,  are  part  and  parcel  of  myself. 

Although,  next  to  virtue,  friendship  is  the  most 
sacred,  the  most  God-like  and  divine  thing  in  human 
intercourse,  yet  I  think  that  it  makes  a  difference 
whether  one  begins  by  loving  or  by  being  loved,  and 
that  those  friendships  should  be  more  carefully  fos- 
tered where  we  return  love  for  love  than  where  we 
simply  receive  it.  I  have  been  overwhelmed  in  a 
thousand  instances  by  your  kindness  and  friendly 
offices,  but  among  them  all  there  is  one  that  I  can 
never  forget.  J 

In  days  gone  by,  I  was  hurrying  across  central 
Italy  in  mid-winter;  you  hastened  to  greet  me,  not 
only  with  affectionate  longings,  which  are  the  wings 
of  the  soul,  but  in  person,  impelled  by  a  wondrous 
desire  to  behold  one  whom  you  had  never  yet  seen,1 
but  whom  you  were  nevertheless  resolved  to  love,, 

1  This  would  seem  sufficient  proof  that  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio 
first  met  on  this  occasion  of  Petrarch's  visit  to  Florence. 


1 90  Petrarch 

You  had  sent  before  you  a  piece  of  beautiful  verse, 
thus  showing  me  first  the  aspect  of  your  genius,  and 
then  of  your  person.  It  was  evening,  and  the  light 
was  fading,  when,  returning  from  my  long  exile,1  I 
found  myself  at  last  within  my  native  walls.  You 
welcomed  me  with  a  courtesy  and  respect  greater 
than  I  merited,  recalling  the  poetic  meeting  of  An- 
chises  and  the  King  of  Arcadia,  who,  "  in  the  ardour 
of  youth,  longed  to  speak  with  the  hero  and  to  press 
his  hand."3  Although  I  did  not,  like  him,  stand 
"  above  all  others,"  but  rather  beneath,  your  zeal 
was  none  the  less  ardent.  You  introduced  me,  not 
within  the  walls  of  Pheneus,  but  into  the  sacred 
penetralia  of  your  friendship.  Nor  did  I  present 
you  with  "  a  superb  quiver  and  arrows  of  Lycia," 
but  rather  with  my  sincere  and  unchangeable  affec- 
tion. While  acknowledging  my  inferiority  in  many 
respects,  I  will  never  willingly  concede  it  in  this, 
either  to  Nisus,  or  to  Pythias,  or  to  Laelius.  Fare- 
well. 

1  Petrarch  had  never  been  in  Florence  before,  although  reckoned 
as  a  Florentine.  He  uses  here  the  phrase  longo  postliminio  redeun- 
tern, — referring  to  the  right  in  the  Roman  law  to  return  home  and  re- 
sume one's  former  rank  and  privileges — a  reminiscence  possibly  of  the 
law  school. 

8  Cf.  the  ^Eneid,  viii.,  162  sqq.,  for  this  and  the  succeeding  allu- 
sions. 


Literary  Contemporaries 

The  Story  of  Griselda 
To  Boccaccio* 

Your  book,  written  in  our  mother  tongue  and 
published,  I  presume,  during  your  early  years,  has 
fallen  into  my  hands,  I  know  not  whence  or  how. 
If  I  told  you  that  I  had  read  it,  I  should  deceive 
you.  It  is  a  very  big  volume,  written  in  prose  and 
for  the  multitude.  I  have  been,  moreover,  occupied 
with  more  serious  business,  and  much  pressed  for 
time.  You  can  easily  imagine  the  unrest  caused  by 
the  warlike  stir  about  me,  for,  far  as  I  have  been 
from  actual  participation  in  the  disturbances,  I  could 
not  but  be  affected  by  the  critical  condition  of  the 
state.  What  I  did  was  to  run  through  your  book, 
like  a  traveller  who,  while  hastening  forward,  looks 
about  him  here  and  there,  without  pausing.  I  have 
heard  somewhere  that  your  volume  was  attacked  by 
the  teeth  of  certain  hounds,  but  that  you  defended  it 
valiantly  with  staff  and  voice.  This  did  not  surprise 
me,  for  not  only  do  I  well  know  your  ability,  but  I 
have  learned  from  experience  of  the  existence  of  an 
insolent  and  cowardly  class  who  attack  in  the  work 
of  others  everything  which  they  do  not  happen  to 
fancy  or  be  familiar  with,  or  which  they  cannot 
themselves  accomplish.  Their  insight  and  capabili- 
ties extend  no  farther ;  on  all  other  themes  they  are 
silent. 

1  This  letter,  written  in  1373  and  containing  a  Latin  translation 
of  Boccaccio's  story  of  Griselda,  is  printed  as  a  separate  work  in 
the  Opera  (1581),  p.  540  sqq.,  but  appears  as  Sen.,  xvii.,  3,  in  Fracas- 
setti's  Italian  version. 


A 


192  Petrarch 

My  hasty  perusal  afforded  me  much  pleasure.  If 
the  humour  is  a  little  too  free  at  times,  this  may  be 
excused  in  view  of  the  age  at  which  you  wrote,  the 
style  and  language  which  you  employ,  and  the  fri- 
volity of  the  subjects,  and  of  the  persons  who  are 
likely  to  read  such  tales.  It  is  important  to  know 
for  whom  we  are  writing,  and  a  difference  in  the 
character  of  one's  listeners  justifies  a  difference  in 
style.  Along  with  much  that  was  light  and  amus- 
ing, I  discovered  some  serious  and  edifying  things 
as  well,  but  I  can  pass  no  definite  judgment  upon 
them,  since  I  have  not  examined  the  work  thor- 
oughly. 

As  usual,  when  one  looks  hastily  through  a  book, 
I  read  somewhat  more  carefully  at  the  beginning  and 
at  the  end.  At  the  beginning  you  have,  it  seems  to 
me,  accurately  described  and  eloquently  lamented 
the  condition  of  our  country  during  that  siege  of 
pestilence  which  forms  so  dark  and  melancholy  a 
period  in  our  century.  At  the  close  you  have  placed 
a  story  which  differs  entirely  from  most  that  pre- 
cede it,  and  which  so  delighted  and  fascinated  me 
that,  in  spite  of  cares  which  made  me  almost  oblivi- 
ous of  myself,  I  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  learn  it 
by  heart,  so  that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  re- 
calling it  for  my  own  benefit,  and  of  relating  it  to 
my  friends  in  conversation.  When  an  opportunity 
for  telling  it  offered  itself  shortly  after,  I  found  that 
my  auditors  were  delighted.  Later  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  me  that  others,  perhaps,  who  were  unac- 
quainted with  our  tongue,  might  be  pleased  with  so 
charming  a  story,  as  it  had  delighted  me  ever  since 


Literary  Contemporaries          193 

I  first  heard  it  some  years  ago,  and  as  you  had  not 
considered  it  unworthy  of  presentation  in  the  mother 
tongue,  and  had  placed  it,  moreover,  at  the  end  of 
your  book,  where,  according  to  the  principles  of 
rhetoric,  the  most  effective  part  of  the  composi- 
tion belongs.  So  one  fine  day  when,  as  usual,  my 
mind  was  distracted  by  a  variety  of  occupations,  dis- 
contented with  myself  and  my  surroundings,  I  sud- 
denly sent  everything  flying,  and,  snatching  my  pen, 
I  attacked  this  story  of  yours.  I  sincerely  trust  that 
it  will  gratify  you  that  I  have  of  my  own  free-will 
undertaken  to  translate  your  work,  something  I 
should  certainly  never  think  of  doing  for  anyone 
else,  but  which  I  was  induced  to  do  in  this  instance 
by  my  partiality  for  you  and  for  the  story.  Not 
neglecting  the  precept  of  Horace  in  his  Art  of 
Poetry,  that  the  careful  translator  should  not  at- 
tempt to  render  word  for  word,  I  have  told  your 
tale  in  my  own  language,  in  some  places  changing  or 
even  adding  a  few  words,  for  I  felt  that  you  would  not 
only  permit,  but  would  approve,  such  alterations.1 

Although  many  have  admired  and  wished  for  my 
version,  it  seemed  to  me  fitting  that  your  work 
should  be  dedicated  to  you  rather  than  to  anyone 
else;  and  it  is  for  you  to  judge  whether  I  have,  by 
this  change  of  dress,  injured  or  embellished  the 
original.  The  story  returns  whence  it  came;  it 
knows  its  judge,  its  home,  and  the  way  thither.  As 
you  and  everyone  who  reads  this  knows,  it  is  you 

1  The  additions  are  so  considerable  that  Fracassetti,  in  translating 
this  letter  into  Italian,  could  make  use  of  the  words  of  Boccaccio's 
original  in  scarcely  more  than  half  of  the  tale. 


194  Petrarch 

and  not  I  who  must  render  account  for  what  is  essen- 
tially yours.  If  anyone  asks  me  whether  this  is  all 
true,  whether  it  is  a  history  or  a  story,  I  reply  in 
the  words  of  Sallust,  "  I  refer  you  to  the  author  " — 
to  wit,  my  friend  Giovanni.  With  so  much  of  in- 
troduction I  begin.  .  .  .a 

My  object  in  thus  re-writing  your  tale  was  not  to 
induce  the  women  of  our  time  to  imitate  the  pa- 
tience of  this  wife,  which  seems  to  me  almost  beyond 
imitation,  but  to  lead  my  readers  to  emulate  the 
example  of  feminine  constancy,  and  to  submit 
themselves  to  God  with  the  same  courage  as  did  this 
woman  to  her  husband.  Although,  as  the  Apostle 
James  tells  us,  "  God  cannot  be  tempted  with  evil, 
and  he  himself  tempteth  no  man,"  he  still  may 
prove  us,  and  often  permits  us  to  be  beset  with 
many  and  grievous  trials,  not  that  he  may  know  our 
character,  which  he  knew  before  we  were  created, 
but  in  order  that  our  weakness  should  be  made  plain 
to  ourselves  by  obvious  and  familiar  proofs.  Any- 
one, it  seems  to  me,  amply  deserves  to  be  reckoned 
among  the  heroes  of  mankind  who  suffers  without 
a  murmur  for  God,  what  this  poor  peasant  woman 
bore  for  her  mortal  husband. 

My  affection  for  you  has  induced  me  to  write  at 
an  advanced  age  what  I  should  hardly  have  under- 
taken even  as  a  young  man.  Whether  what  I  have 
narrated  be  true  or  false  I  do  not  know,  but  the  fact 
that  you  wrote  it  would  seem  sufficient  to  justify 
the  inference  that  it  is  but  a  tale.  Foreseeing  this 

8  Petrarch's  version  of  the  tale  is  here  omitted. 


Literary  Contemporaries          195 

question,  I  have  prefaced  my  translation  with  the 
statement  that  the  responsibility  for  the  story  rests 
with  the  author;  that  is,  with  you.  And  now  let 
me  tell  you  my  experiences  with  this  narrative,  or 
tale,  as  I  prefer  to  call  it. 

In  the  first  place,  I  gave  it  to  one  of  our  mutual 
friends  in  Padua  to  read,  a  man  of  excellent  parts 
and  wide  attainments.  When  scarcely  half-way 
through  the  composition,  he  was  suddenly  arrested 
by  a  burst  of  tears.  When  again,  after  a  short 
pause,  he  made  a  manful  attempt  to  continue,  he 
was  again  interrupted  by  a  sob.  He  then  realised 
that  he  could  go  no  farther  himself,  and  handed  the 
story  to  one  of  his  companions,  a  man  of  education, 
to  finish.  How  others  may  view  this  occurrence  I 
cannot,  of  course,  say;  for  myself,  I  put  a  most 
favourable  construction  upon  it,  believing  that  I 
recognise  the  indications  of  a  most  compassionate 
disposition ;  a  more  kindly  nature,  indeed,  I  never 
remember  to  have  met.  As  I  saw  him  weep  as  he 
read,  the  words  of  the  Satirist  came  back  to  me : 

"  Nature,  who  gave  us  tears,  by  that  alone 
Proclaims  she  made  the  feeling  heart  our  own  ; 
And  't  is  our  noblest  sense."  ' 

Some  time  after,  another  friend  of  ours,  from 
Verona  (for  all  is  common  between  us,  even  our 
friends),  having  heard  of  the  effect  produced  by  the 
story  in  the  first  instance,  wished  to  read  it  for  him- 
self. I  readily  complied,  as  he  was  not  only  a  good 
friend,  but  a  man  of  ability.  He  read  the  narrative 

1  Juvenal,  xv.,  131-3,  as  translated  by  William  Gifford. 


196  Petrarch 

from  beginning  to  end  without  stopping  once. 
Neither  his  face  nor  his  voice  betrayed  the  least 
emotion,  not  a  tear  or  a  sob  escaped  him.  '  I  too," 
he  said  at  the  end,  "  would  have  wept,  for  the  sub- 
ject certainly  excites  pity,  and  the  style  is  well 
adapted  to  call  forth  tears,  and  I  am  not  hard- 
hearted; but  I  believed,  and  still  believe,  that  this 
is  all  an  invention.  If  it  were  true,  what  woman, 
whether  of  Rome  or  any  other  nation,  could  be  com- 
pared with  this  Griselda  ?  Where  do  we  find  the 
equal  of  this  conjugal  devotion,  where  such  faith, 
such  extraordinary  patience  and  constancy?"  I 
made  no  reply  to  this  reasoning,  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
run  the  risk  of  a  bitter  debate  in  the  midst  of  our 
good-humoured  and  friendly  discussion.  But  I  had 
a  reply  ready.  There  are  some  who  think  that  what- 
ever is  difficult  for  them  must  be  impossible  for 
others ;  they  must  measure  others  by  themselves,  in 
order  to  maintain  their  superiority.  Yet  there  have 
been  many,  and  there  may  still  be  many,  to  whom 
acts  are  easy  which  are  commonly  held  to  be  im- 
possible. Who  is  there  who  would  not,  for  example, 
regard  a  Curtius,  a  Mucius,  or  the  Decii,  among  our 
own  people,  as  pure  fictions  ;  or,  among  foreign 
nations,  Codrus  and  the  Philaeni;  or,  since  we  are 
speaking  of  woman,  Portia,  or  Hypsicratia,  or  Al- 
cestis,  and  others  like  them  ?  But  these  are  actual 
historical  persons.  And  indeed  I  do  not  see  why 
one  who  can  face  death  for  another,  should  not  be 
capable  of  encountering  any  trial  or  form  of  suffer- 
ing. .  .  .  * 

1  The  close  of  this  letter  is  given  above,  pp.  53  sqq. 


Literary  Contemporaries          197 
On  the  Italian  Language  and  Literature 

To  Boccaccio* 

"  I  have  somewhat  to  say  unto  thee,"  if  a  poor 
sinner  may  use  the  words  of  his  Saviour,  and  this 
something  for  which  you  are  listening,  what  should 
it  be  but  what  I  am  wont  to  tell  you  ?  So  prepare 
your  mind  for  patience  and  your  ears  for  reproaches. 
For,  although  nothing  could  be  more  alike  than  our 
two  minds,  I  have  often  noticed  with  surprise  that 
nothing  could  be  more  unlike  than  our  acts  and  re- 
solutions. I  frequently  ask  myself  how  this  happens, 
not  only  in  your  case  but  in  that  of  certain  others 
of  my  friends,  in  whom  I  note  the  same  contrast. 
I  find  no  other  explanation  than  that  our  common 
mother,  nature,  made  us  the  same,  but  that  habit, 
which  is  said  to  be  a  second  nature,  has  rendered  us 
unlike.  Would  that  we  might  have  lived  together, 
for  then  we  should  have  been  but  one  mind  in  two 
bodies. 

You  may  imagine  now  that  I  have  something 
really  important  to  tell  you,  but  you  are  mistaken ; — 
and,  as  you  well  know,  a  thing  must  be  trivial  in- 
deed which  the  author  himself  declares  to  be  unim- 
portant, for  our  own  utterances  are  so  dear  to  us 
that  scarcely  anyone  is  a  good  judge  of  his  own  per- 
formances, so  prone  are  we  to  be  misled  by  partiality 
for  ourselves  and  our  works.  You,  among  many 
thousands,  are  the  only  one  to  be  betrayed  into  a  false 
estimate  of  your  compositions  by  aversion  and  con- 

1  Sen.,  v.,  3.    Written,  Fracassetti  believes,  about  1366. 


198  Petrarch 

tempt,  instead  of  inordinate  love, — unless,  mayhap, 
I  am  myself  deceived  in  this  matter,  and  attribute 
to  humility  what  is  really  due  to  pride.  What  I 
mean  by  all  this  you  shall  now  hear. 

You  are  familiar,  no  doubt,  with  that  widely  dis- 
tributed and  vulgar  set  of  men  who  live  by  words, 
and  those  not  their  own,  and  who  have  increased  to 
such  an  irritating  extent  among  us.  They  are  per- 
sons of  no  great  ability,  but  of  retentive  memories; 
of  great  industry  too,  but  of  greater  audacity.  They 
haunt  the  antechambers  of  kings  and  potentates, 
naked  if  it  were  not  for  the  poetic  vesture  that  they 
have  filched  from  others.  Any  especially  good  bit 
which  this  one  or  that  one  has  turned  off,  they  seize 
upon,  more  particularly  if  it  be  in  the  mother  tongue, 
and  recite  it  with  huge  gusto.  In  this  way  they  strive 
to  gain  the  favour  of  the  nobility,  and  procure 
money,  clothes,  or  other  gifts.  Their  stock-in-trade 
is  partly  picked  up  here  and  there,  partly  obtained 
directly  from  the  writers  themselves,  either  by  beg- 
ging, or,  where  cupidity  or  poverty  exists,  for  money. 
This  last  case  is  described  by  the  Satirist:  "  He  will 
die  of  hunger  if  he  does  not  succeed  in  selling  to 
Paris  his  yet  unheard  Agave  " 

You  can  easily  imagine  how  often  these  fellows 
have  pestered  me,  and  I  doubt  not  others,  with  their 
disgusting  fawning.  It  is  true  I  suffer  less  than 
formerly,  owing  to  my  altered  studies,  or  to  respect 
for  my  age,  or  to  repulses  already  received ;  for,  lest 
they  should  get  in  the  habit  of  annoying  me,  I  have 

1  Juvenal,  vii.,  87. 


Literary  Contemporaries          199 

often  sharply  refused  to  aid  them,  and  have  not 
allowed  myself  to  be  affected  by  any  amount  of  in- 
sistence. Sometimes  indeed,  especially  when  I 
knew  the  applicant  to  be  humble  and  needy,  a  cer- 
tain benevolent  instinct  has  led  me  to  assist  the  poor 
fellow  to  a  living,  with  such  skill  as  I  possessed.  My 
aid  might  be  of  permanent  use  to  the  recipient,  while 
it  cost  me  only  a  short  hour  of  work.  Some  of 
those  whom  I  had  been  induced  to  assist,  and  who 
had  left  me  with  their  wish  fulfilled,  but  otherwise 
poor  and  ill-clad,  returned  shortly  after  arrayed  in 
silks,  with  well-filled  bellies  and  purses,  to  thank  me 
for  the  assistance  which  had  enabled  them  to  cast 
off  the  burden  of  poverty.  On  such  occasions  I 
have  sometimes  been  led  to  vow  that  I  would  never 
refuse  this  peculiar  kind  of  alms ;  but  there  always 
comes  a  moment,  when,  wearied  by  their  importun- 
ities, I  retract  the  resolve. 

When  I  asked  some  of  these  beggars  why  they 
always  came  to  me,  and  never  applied  to  others,  and 
in  particular  to  you,  for  assistance,  they  replied 
that  so  far  as  you  were  concerned  they  had  often 
done  so,  but  never  with  success.  While  I  was 
wondering  that  one  who  was  so  generous  with  his 
property  should  be  so  niggardly  with  his  words, 
they  added  that  you  had  burnt  all  the  verses  which 
you  had  ever  written  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  This,  in- 
stead of  satisfying  me,  only  served  to  increase  my 
astonishment.  When  I  asked  the  reason  of  your 
doing  this,  they  all  confessed  ignorance  and  held 
their  tongues,  except  one.  He  said  that  he  believed 
— whether  he  had  actually  heard  it  somewhere  or 


200  Petrarch 

other,  I  do  not  know — that  you  intended  to  revise 
all  the  things  which  you  had  written  both  in  your 
earlier  days,  and,  later,  in  your  prime,  in  order  to 
give  your  works,  in  this  revision,  the  advantage  of 
a  mature, — I  am  tempted  to  say  hoary,  mind.  Such 
confidence  in  the  prolongation  of  our  most  uncertain 
existence,  especially  at  your  age,  seemed  to  both  of 
us  exaggerated.  Although  I  have  the  greatest  con- 
fidence in  your  discretion  and  vigour  of  mind,  my 
surprise  was  only  increased  by  what  I  had  heard. 
What  a  perverted  idea,  I  said,  to  burn  up  what  you 
wished  to  revise,  so  as  to  have  nothing  left  for 
revision ! 

My  astonishment  continued  until  at  last,  on 
coming  to  this  city,  I  became  intimate  with  our 
Donato,  who  is  so  faithful  and  devoted  a  friend  of 
yours.  It  was  from  him  that  I  learned  recently,  in 
the  course  of  our  daily  conversation,  not  only  the 
fact  which  I  had  already  heard,  but  also  the  explana- 
tion of  it,  which  had  so  long  puzzled  me.  He  said 
that  in  your  earlier  years  you  had  been  especially 
fond  of  writing  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  had  de- 
voted much  time  and  pains  to  it,  until  in  the  course 
of  your  researches  and  reading  you  had  happened 
upon  my  youthful  compositions  in  the  vernacular. 
Then  your  enthusiasm  for  writing  similar  things 
suddenly  cooled.  Not  content  simply  to  refrain 
from  analogous  work  in  the  future,  you  conceived  a 
great  dislike  to  what  you  had  already  done  and 
burned  everything,  not  with  the  idea  of  correcting 
but  of  destroying.  In  this  way  you  deprived  both 
yourself  and  posterity  of  the  fruits  of  your  labours 


Literary  Contemporaries          201 

in  this  field  of  literature,  and  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  you  thought  what  you  had  written  was  in- 
ferior to  my  productions.  But  your  dislike  was  ill- 
founded  and  the  sacrifice  inexpedient.  As  for  your 
motive,  that  is  doubtful.  Was  it  humility,  which 
despised  itself,  or  pride,  which  would  be  second  to 
none  ?  You  who  can  see  your  own  heart  must  judge. 
I  can  only  wander  among  the  various  possible  con- 
jectures, writing  to  you,  as  usual,  as  if  I  were  talking 
to  myself. 

I  congratulate  you,  then,  on  regarding  yourself  as 
inferior  to  those  whose  superior  you  really  are.  I 
would  far  rather  share  that  error  than  his  who, 
being  really  inferior,  believes  himself  to  be  on  a 
higher  plane.  This  reminds  me  of  Lucan  of  Cor- 
dova, a  man  of  the  ardent  spirit  and  the  genius 
which  pave  the  way  alike  to  great  eminence  and  to 
an  abyss  of  failure.  Finding  himself  far  advanced 
in  his  studies  while  still  young,  he  became,  upon 
turning  over  in  his  mind  his  age  and  the  successful 
beginnings  of  his  career,  so  puffed  up  that  he  ven- 
tured to  compare  himself  with  Virgil.  In  reciting  a 
portion  of  a  work  on  the  Civil  War,  which  was  in- 
terrupted by  his  death,  he  said  in  his  introductory  re- 
marks, ' '  Do  I  in  any  way  fall  short  of  the  Culex  ?  "  * 
Whether  this  arrogant  speech  was  noticed  by  any 
friend  of  the  poet,  or  what  answer  he  received,  I  do 
not  know ;  for  myself,  I  have  often,  since  I  read  the 
passage,  inwardly  replied  indignantly  to  this  brag- 
gart: "  My  fine  fellow,  thy  performance  may  in- 

1  A  trifling  poem  once  universally  attributed  to  Virgil. 


202  Petrarch 

deed  equal  the  Culex,  but  what  a  gulf  between  it 
and  the  ALneid !  "  But  why,  then,  do  I  not  praise 
your  humility,  who  judge  me  to  be  your  superior, 
and  praise  it  the  more  highly  in  contrast  with  the 
boast  of  this  upstart,  who  would  believe  himself 
superior,  or  at  least  equal,  to  Virgil  ? 

But  there  is  something  else  here  which  I  would 
gladly  discover,  but  which  is  of  so  obscure  a  nature 
that  it  is  not  easily  cleared  up  with  the  pen.  I  will, 
however,  do  the  best  I  can.  I  fear  that  your  re- 
markable humility  may  after  all  be  only  pride.  This 
will  doubtless  seem  to  many  a  novel  and  even  sur- 
prising name  for  humility,  and  if  it  should  prove 
offensive  I  will  use  some  other  term.  I  only  fear 
that  this  signal  exhibition  of  humility  is  not  alto- 
gether free  from  some  admixture  of  haughtiness.  I 
have  seen  men  at  a  banquet,  or  some  other  assembly, 
rise  and  voluntarily  take  the  lowest  place,  because 
they  had  not  been  assigned  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  this  under  cover  of  humility,  although  pride 
was  the  real  motive.  I  have  seen  another  so  weak 
as  even  to  leave  the  room.  Thus  anger  sometimes, 
and  sometimes  pride,  leads  men  to  act  as  though  one 
who  did  not  enjoy  the  highest  seat,  which  in  the 
nature  of  things  cannot  be  assigned  to  more  than  a 
single  individual,  was  necessarily  unworthy  of  any 
place  except  perhaps  the  lowest.  But  there  are  de- 
grees of  glory  as  well  as  of  merit. 

As  for  you,  you  show  your  humility  in  not  assum- 
ing the  first  place.  Some,  inferior  to  you  both  in 
talents  and  style,  have  laid  claim  to  it,  and  have 
aroused  our  indignation,  not  unmixed  with  merri- 


Literary  Contemporaries          203 

ment,  by  their  absurd  aspirations.  Would  that  the 
support  of  the  vulgar,  which  they  sometimes  enjoy, 
weighed  no  more  in  the  market-place  than  with  the 
dwellers  on  Parnassus.  But  not  to  be  able  to  take 
the  second  or  third  rank,  does  not  that  smack  of 
genuine  pride  ?  Suppose  for  the  moment  that  I  sur- 
pass you,  I,  who  would  so  gladly  be  your  equal; 
suppose  that  you  are  surpassed  by  the  great  master 
of  our  mother  tongue;  beware  lest  there  be  more 
pride  in  refusing  to  see  yourself  distanced  by  one 
or  the  other,  especially  by  your  fellow-citizen, 
or,  at  most,  by  a  very  few,  than  in  soliciting  the 
distinction  of  the  first  place  for  yourself.  To  long 
for  supremacy  may  be  regarded  as  the  sign  of  a 
great  mind,  but  to  despise  what  only  approaches 
supremacy  is  a  certain  indication  of  arrogance. 

I  have  heard  that  our  Old  Man  of  Ravenna,1  who 
is  by  no  means  a  bad  judge  in  such  matters,  is  ac- 
customed, whenever  the  conversation  turns  on  these 
matters,  to  assign  you  the  third  place.  If  this  dis- 
pleases you,  and  if  you  think  that  I  prevent  your 
attaining  to  the  first  rank — though  I  am  really  no 
obstacle — I  willingly  renounce  all  pretensions  to  pre- 
cedence, and  leave  you  the  second  place.  If  you 
refuse  this  I  do  not  think  that  you  ought  to  be 
pardoned.  If  the  very  first  alone  are  illustrious,  it 
is  easy  to  see  how  innumerable  are  the  obscure,  and 
how  few  enjoy  the  radiance  of  glory.  Consider, 
moreover,  how  much  safer,  and  even  higher,  is  the 

1  It  is  not  known  who  is  meant  here.  Cf.  Fracassetti,  Lettere 
Senile,  vol.  i.,  p.  283. 


204  Petrarch 

second  place.  There  is  someone  to  receive  the  first 
attacks  of  envy,  and,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  reput- 
ation, to  indicate  your  path ;  for  by  watching  his 
course,  you  will  learn  when  to  follow  it,  and  when 
to  avoid  it.  You  have  someone  to  aid  you  to  throw 
off  all  slothful  habits  through  your  effort  to  over- 
take him.  You  are  spurred  on  to  equal  him,  and 
not  be  forever  second.  Such  an  one  serves  as  a  goad 
to  noble  minds  and  often  accomplishes  wonders. 
He  who  knows  how  to  put  up  with  the  second  place 
will  ere  long  deserve  the  first,  while  he  who  scorns 
the  second  place  has  already  begun  to  be  unworthy 
even  of  that.  If  you  will  but  consult  your  memory, 
you  will  scarcely  find  a  first-rate  commander,  philo- 
sopher, or  poet,  who  did  not  reach  the  top  through 
the  aid  of  just  such  stimulus. 

Furthermore,  if  the  first  place  is  to  most  persons  a 
source  of  complacent  satisfaction  with  themselves, 
and  of  envy  on  the  part  of  others,  it  is  certainly  also 
liable  to  produce  inertia.  The  student  as  well  as 
the  lover  is  spurred  on  by  jealousy:  love  without 
rivalry,  and  merit  without  emulation  are  equally 
prone  to  languish.  Industrious  poverty  is  much  to 
be  preferred  to  idle  opulence.  It  is  better  to 
struggle  up  a  steep  declivity  with  watchful  care  than 
to  lie  sunk  in  shameful  ease ;  better  and  safer  to 
trust  to  the  aid  of  active  virtue  than  to  rely  upon 
the  distinction  of  an  idle  reputation. 

These  are  good  reasons,  it  seems  to  me,  for  cheer- 
fully accepting  the  second  place.  But  what  if  you 
are  assigned  to  the  third  or  the  fourth  ?  Will 
this  rouse  your  anger  ?  or  have  you  forgotten  the 


Literary  Contemporaries          205 

passage  where  Seneca  defends  Fabianus  Papirius 
against  Lucilius  ?  After  assigning  Cicero  a  higher 
rank,  he  remarked:  "It  is  no  slight  thing  to  be 
second  only  to  the  highest. ' '  Then,  naming  Asinius 
Pollio  next  to  Cicero,  he  added,  "  Nor  in  such  a 
case  is  the  third  place  to  be  despised."  Lastly, 
placing  Livy  in  the  fourth  rank,  he  concluded, 
'  What  a  vast  number  of  writers  does  he  excel  who 
is  vanquished  by  three  only,  and  these  three  the 
most  gifted!"  Does  not  this  apply  very  well  to 
you,  my  dear  friend  ?  Only,  whatever  place  you 
occupy,  or  whomsoever  you  may  seem  to  see  ahead 
of  you,  it  cannot,  in  my  judgment,  be  I  who  pre- 
cede you.  So,  eschew  the  flames,  and  have  mercy 
on  your  verses. 

If,  however,  you  and  others  are,  in  spite  of  what 
I  say,  thoroughly  convinced  that  I  must,  willy-nilly, 
be  your  superior  in  literary  rank,  do  you  really  feel 
aggrieved,  and  regard  it  as  a  shameful  thing  to  be 
ranked  next  to  me  ?  If  this  be  true,  permit  me  to 
say  that  I  have  long  been  deceived  in  you,  and  that 
neither  your  natural  modesty  nor  your  love  of  me 
is  what  I  had  hoped.  True  friends  place  those  whom 
they  love  above  themselves.  They  not  only  wish  to 
be  excelled,  but  experience  an  extreme  pleasure  in 
being  outstripped,  just  as  no  fond  father  would 
deny  that  his  greatest  pleasure  consisted  in  being 
surpassed  by  his  son.  I  hoped  and  hope  still  that  I 
am  inferior  to  you.  I  do  not  claim  to  be  like  a 
dear  son  to  you,  or  to  believe  that  my  reputation  is 
dearer  to  you  than  your  own.  I  remember,  though, 
that  you,  in  a  moment  of  friendly  anger,  once  re- 


206  Petrarch 

preached  me  for  this.  If  you  were  really  sincere, 
you  ought  to  grant  me  the  right  of  way  with  joy. 
Instead  of  giving  up  the  race,  you  should  press 
after  me  with  all  your  might,  and  so  prevent  any 
other  competitor  from  thrusting  himself  between 
us  and  stealing  your  place.  He  who  sits  in  the 
chariot  or  runs  by  his  friend's  side  does  not  ask 
who  is  first,  but  is  only  anxious  that  they  two  shall 
be  as  near  as  possible.  Nothing  is  sweeter  than  the 
longed-for  closeness  of  companionship.  Love  is 
everything,  precedence  next  to  nothing,  among 
friends.  The  first  are  last  and  the  last  first,  for  all 
are  really  one  in  friendship. 

So  much  for  the  case  against  you.  Let  us  now 
turn  to  the  excuses  for  your  conduct.  In  spite  of 
your  own  explanation  and  that  which  comes  to  me 
through  such  a  very  good  friend  of  yours,  I  have 
tried  to  discover  some  higher  motive  for  your  action 
than  that  which  you  mention ;  for  the  same  act  may 
be  good  or  bad  according  to  the  motives  which 
dictate  it.  I  will  tell  you,  then,  what  has  occurred 
to  me. 

You  did  not  destroy  your  productions,  in  a  man- 
ner so  unfair  both  to  you  and  to  them,  through 
false  pride,  which  is  quite  foreign  to  your  gentle 
character;  nor  because  you  were  jealous  of  some- 
one else,  or  dissatisfied  with  your  own  lot.  You 
were  actuated  by  a  noble  indignation  against  the 
emptiness  and  vanity  of  our  age,  which  in  its  crass 
ignorance  corrupts  or,  far  worse,  despises  everything 
good.  You  wished  to  withdraw  your  productions 
from  the  judgment  of  the  men  of  to-day,  and, 


Literary  Contemporaries          207 

as  Virginius  once  slew  his  own  daughter  to  save  her 
from  shame,  so  you  have  committed  to  the  flames 
your  beautiful  inventions,  the  children  of  your  in- 
tellect, to  prevent  their  becoming  the  prey  of  such 
a  rabble.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  how  near  the 
truth  have  I  guessed  ?  I  have  indeed  often  thought 
of  doing  the  same  for  my  own  compositions  in  the 
vulgar  tongue,  few  as  they  are ;  and  it  was  my  own 
experience  which  suggested  this  explanation  of  your 
conduct.  I  should  perhaps  have  done  so,  had  they 
not  been  so  widely  circulated  as  to  have  long  ago 
escaped  my  control.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
have  sometimes  harboured  quite  the  opposite  design, 
and  thought  of  devoting  my  whole  attention  to  the 
vernacular. 

To  be  sure,  the  Latin,  in  both  prose  and  poetry, 
is  undoubtedly  the  nobler  language,  but  for  that 
very  reason  it  has  been  so  thoroughly  developed  by 
earlier  writers  that  neither  we  nor  anyone  else  may 
expect  to  add  very  much  to  it.  The  vernacular,  on 
the  other  hand,  has  but  recently  been  discovered, 
and,  though  it  has  been  ravaged  by  many,  it  still 
remains  uncultivated,  in  spite  of  a  few  earnest  labour- 
ers, and  still  shows  itself  capable  of  much  improve- 
ment and  enrichment.  Stimulated  by  this  thought, 
and  by  the  enterprise  of  youth,  I  began  an  exten- 
sive work  in  that  language.  I  laid  the  foundations 
of  the  structure,  and  got  together  my  lime  and 
stones  and  wood.  And  then  I  began  to  consider  a 
little  more  carefully  the  times  in  which  we  live,  the 
fact  that  our  age  is  the  mother  of  pride  and  indo- 
lence, and  that  the  ability  of  the  vainglorious  fellows 


208  Petrarch 

who  would  be  my  judges,  and  their  peculiar  grace 
of  delivery  is  such  that  they  can  hardly  be  said  to 
recite  the  writings  of  others,  but  rather  to  mangle 
them.  Hearing  their  performances  again  and  again, 
and  turning  the  matter  over  in  my  mind,  I  concluded 
at  length  that  I  was  building  upon  unstable  earth 
and  shifting  sand,  and  should  simply  waste  my 
labours  and  see  the  work  of  my  hands  levelled  by 
the  common  herd.  Like  one  who  finds  a  great  ser- 
pent across  his  track,  I  stopped  and  changed  my 
route, — for  a  higher  and  more  direct  one,  I  hope. 
Although  the  short  things  I  once  wrote  in  the  vul- 
gar tongue  are,  as  I  have  said,  so  scattered  that 
they  now  belong  to  the  public  rather  than  to  me,  I 
shall  take  precautions  against  having  my  more  im- 
portant works  torn  to  pieces  in  the  same  way. 

And  yet  why  should  I  find  fault  with  the  unen- 
lightenment  of  the  common  people,  when  those  who 
call  themselves  learned  afford  so  much  more  just  and 
serious  a  ground  for  complaint  ?  Besides  many 
other  ridiculous  peculiarities,  these  people  add  to 
their  gross  ignorance  an  exaggerated  and  most  dis- 
gusting pride.  It  is  this  that  leads  them  to  carp  at 
the  reputation  of  those  whose  most  trivial  sayings 
they  were  once  proud  to  comprehend,  in  even  the 
most  fragmentary  fashion.  O  inglorious  age !  that 
scorns  antiquity,  its  mother,  to  whom  it  owes  every 
noble  art, — that  dares  to  declare  itself  not  only  equal 
but  superior  to  the  glorious  past.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  vulgar,  the  dregs  of  mankind,  whose  sayings  and 
opinions  may  raise  a  laugh  but  hardly  merit  serious 
censure.  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  military  class 


Literary  Contemporaries          209 

and  the  leaders  in  war,  who  do  not  blush  to  assert 
that  their  time  has  beheld  the  culmination  and  per- 
fection of  military  art,  when  there  is  no  doubt  that 
this  art  has  degenerated  and  is  utterly  going  to  ruin 
in  their  hands.  They  have  neither  skill  nor  intelli- 
gence, but  rely  entirely  upon  indolence  and  chance. 
They  go  to  war  decked  out  as  if  for  a  wedding, 
bent  on  meat  and  drink  and  the  gratification  of  their 
lust.  They  think  much  more  of  flight  than  they  do 
of  victory.  Their  skill  lies  not  in  striking  the  advers- 
ary, but  in  holding  out  the  hand  of  submission ;  not 
in  terrifying  the  enemy,  but  in  pleasing  the  eyes  of 
their  mistresses.1  But  even  these  false  notions  may 
be  excused  in  view  of  the  utter  ignorance  and  want 
of  instruction  on  the  part  of  those  who  hold  them. 

I  will  pass  over  the  kings,  who  act  as  if  they 
thought  that  their  office  consisted  in  purple  and  gold, 
in  sceptre  and  diadem,  and  that,  excelling  their  pre- 
decessors in  these  things,  they  must  excel  them 
likewise  in  prowess  and  glory.  Although  they  were 
put  upon  the  throne  for  the  single  purpose  of 
ruling  (whence  their  title,  rex,  is  derived),  they  do 
not  in  reality  govern  the  people  over  whom  they  are 
placed,  but,  as  their  conduct  shows,  are  themselves 
governed  by  their  passions.  They  are  rulers  of  men, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  slaves  of  sloth  and  luxury. 
Still  ignorance  of  the  past,  the  ephemeral  glory 
that  fortune  bestows  and  the  vanity  that  always  at- 
tends undue  prosperity,  may  serve  to  excuse  in  some 


1  Machiavelli's  Prince,  chap,  xii.,  contains  a  similar  description  of 
war  in  his  day. 


210  Petrarch 

measure  even  these.  But  what  can  be  said  in  de- 
fence of  men  of  education  who  ought  not  to  be 
ignorant  of  antiquity  and  yet  are  plunged  in  this 
same  darkness  and  delusion  ? 

You  see  that  I  cannot  speak  of  these  matters 
without  the  greatest  irritation  and  indignation. 
There  has  arisen  of  late  a  set  of  dialecticians,  who 
are  not  only  ignorant  but  demented.  Like  a  black 
army  of  ants  from  some  old  rotten  oak,  they  swarm 
forth  from  their  hiding-places  and  devastate  the 
fields  of  sound  learning.  They  condemn  Plato  and 
Aristotle,  and  laugh  at  Socrates  and  Pythagoras. 
And,  good  God !  under  what  silly  and  incompetent 
leaders  these  opinions  are  put  forth !  I  should  pre- 
fer not  to  give  a  name  to  this  group  of  men.  They 
have  done  nothing  to  merit  one,  though  their  folly 
has  made  them  famous.  I  do  not  wish  to  place 
among  the  greatest  of  mankind  those  whom  I  see 
consorting  with  the  most  abject.  These  fellows 
have  deserted  all  trustworthy  leaders,  and  glory  in 
the  name  of  those  who,  whatever  they  may  learn 
after  death,  exhibited  in  this  world  no  trace  of  power, 
or  knowledge,  or  reputation  for  knowledge.  What 
shall  we  say  of  men  who  scorn  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero, 
the  bright  sun  of  eloquence  ?  Of  those  who  scoff  at 
Varro  and  Seneca,  and  are  scandalised  at  what  they 
choose  to  call  the  crude,  unfinished  style  of  Livy  and 
Sallust  ?  And  all  this  in  obedience  to  leaders  of 
whom  no  one  has  ever  heard,  and  for  whom  their 
followers  ought  to  blush !  Once  I  happened  to  be 
present  when  Virgil's  style  was  the  subject  of  their 
scornful  criticism.  Astonished  at  their  crazy  out- 


Literary  Contemporaries          2 1 1 

break,  I  turned  to  a  person  of  some  cultivation  and 
asked  what  he  had  detected  in  this  famous  man  to 
rouse  such  a  storm  of  reproach.  Listen  to  the  reply 
he  gave  me,  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  :  "  He  is  too  fond  of  conjunctions." 
Arise,  O  Virgil,  and  polish  the  verses  that,  with  the 
aid  of  the  Muses,  thou  didst  snatch  from  heaven,  in 
order  that  they  may  be  fit  to  deliver  into  hands 
like  these ! 

How  shall  I  deal  with  that  other  monstrous  kind 
of  pedant,  who  wears  a  religious  garb,  but  is  most 
profane  in  heart  and  conduct ;  who  would  have  us 
believe  that  Ambrose,  Augustine,  and  Jerome  were 
ignoramuses,  for  all  their  elaborate  treatises  ?  I  do 
not  know  the  origin  of  these  new  theologians,  who 
do  not  spare  the  great  teachers,  and  will  not  much 
longer  spare  the  Apostles  and  the  Gospel  itself. 
They  will  soon  turn  their  impudent  tongues  even 
against  Christ,  unless  he,  whose  cause  is  at  stake,  in- 
terferes and  curbs  the  raging  beasts.  It  has  al- 
ready become  a  well-established  habit  with  these 
fellows  to  express  their  scorn  by  a  mute  gesture  or 
by  some  impious  observation,  whenever  revered  and 
sacred  names  are  mentioned.  '  Augustine/'  they 
will  say,  "  saw  much,  but  understood  little."  Nor 
do  they  speak  less  insultingly  of  other  great  men. 

Recently  one  of  these  philosophers  of  the  modern 
stamp  happened  to  be  in  my  library.  He  did  not, 
like  the  others,  wear  a  religious  habit,  but,  after 
all,  Christianity  is  not  a  matter  of  clothes.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  think  they  live  in  vain  unless  they 
are  constantly  snarling  at  Christ  or  his  divine  teach- 


212  Petrarch 

ings.  When  I  cited  some  passage  or  other  from  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  he  exploded  with  wrath,  and  with 
his  face,  naturally  ugly,  still  further  disfigured  by 
anger  and  contempt,  he  exclaimed:  "  You  are  wel- 
come to  your  two-penny  church  fathers ;  as  for  me,  I 
know  the  man  for  me  to  follow,  for  I  kno^v  him 
whom  I  have  believed."  '  You,"  I  replied,  "  use 
the  words  of  the  Apostle.  I  would  that  you  would 
take  them  to  heart!"  '  Your  Apostle,"  he  an- 
swered, "was  a  sower  of  words  and  a  lunatic." 

'  You    reply   like    a    good   philosopher,"    I    said. 

'  The  first  of  your  accusations  was  brought  against 
him  by  other  philosophers,  and  the  second  to  his 
face  by  Festus,  Governor  of  Syria.  He  did  indeed 
sow  the  word,  and  with  such  success  that,  cultivated 
by  the  beneficent  plough  of  his  successors  and 
watered  by  the  holy  blood  of  the  martyrs,  it  has 
borne  such  an  abundant  harvest  of  faith  as  we  all  be- 
hold." At  this  he  burst  forth  into  a  sickening  roar 
of  laughter.  "  Well,  be  a  '  good  Christian  ' ! '  As 
for  me,  I  put  no  faith  in  all  that  stuff.  Your  Paul 
and  your  Augustine  and  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd 
you  preach  about  were  a  set  of  babblers.  If  you 
could  but  stomach  Averroes  you  would  quickly  see 
how  much  superior  he  was  to  these  empty-headed 
fellows  of  yours."  I  was  very  angry,  I  must  con- 
fess, and  could  scarcely  keep  from  striking  his  filthy, 
blasphemous  mouth.  "  It  is  the  old  feud  between 
me  and  other  heretics  of  your  class.  You  can 
go,"  I  cried,  "  you  and  your  heresy,  and  never  re- 

1  Luther  reports  that  in  his  time,  in  Rome,  they  called  an  earnest 
believer  "  bon  Christian." 


Literary  Contemporaries          213 

turn."  With  this  I  plucked  him  by  the  gown,  and, 
with  a  want  of  ceremony  less  consonant  with  my 
habits  than  his  own,  hustled  him  out  of  the  house. 

There  are  thousands  of  instances  of  this  kind, 
where  nothing  will  prevail, — not  even  the  majesty 
of  the  Christian  name  nor  reverence  for  Christ  him- 
self (whom  the  angels  fall  down  and  worship,  though 
weak  and  depraved  mortals  may  insult  him),  nor 
yet  the  fear  of  punishment  or  the  armed  inquisitors 
of  heresy.  The  prison  and  stake  are  alike  impotent 
to  restrain  the  impudence  of  ignorance  or  the  au- 
dacity of  heresy. 

Such  are  the  times,  my  friend,  upon  which  we 
have  fallen ;  such  is  the  period  in  which  we  live  and 
are  growing  old.  Such  are  the  critics  of  to-day,  as 
I  so  often  have  occasion  to  lament  and  complain,— 
men  who  are  innocent  of  knowledge  or  virtue,  and 
yet  harbour  the  most  exalted  opinion  of  themselves. 
Not  content  with  losing  the  words  of  the  ancients, 
they  must  attack  their  genius  and  their  ashes.  They 
rejoice  in  their  ignorance,  as  if  what  they  did  not 
know  were  not  worth  knowing.  They  give  full  rein 
to  their  licence  and  conceit,  and  freely  introduce 
among  us  new  authors  and  outlandish  teachings. 

If  you,  having  no  other  means  of  defence,  have 
resorted  to  the  fire  to  save  your  works  from  the 
criticism  of  such  despotic  judges,  I  cannot  disap- 
prove the  act  and  must  commend  your  motives.  I 
have  done  the  same  with  many  of  my  own  produc- 
tions, and  almost  repent  me  that  I  did  not  include 
all,  while  it  was  yet  in  my  power;  for  we  have  no 
prospect  of  fairer  judges,  while  the  number  and  au- 


214  Petrarch 

dacity  of  the  existing  ones  grow  from  day  to  day. 
They  are  no  longer  confined  to  the  schools,  but  fill 
the  largest  towns,  choking  up  the  streets  and  public 
squares.  We  are  come  to  such  a  pass  that  I  am 
sometimes  angry  at  myself  for  having  been  so  vexed 
by  the  recent  warlike  and  destructive  years,  and 
having  bemoaned  the  depopulation  of  the  earth.  It 
is  perhaps  depopulated  of  true  men,  but  was  never 
more  densely  crowded  with  vices  and  the  creatures 
of  vice.  In  short,  had  I  been  among  the  ALdiles, 
and  felt  as  I  do  now,  I  should  have  acquitted  the 
daughter  of  Appius  Claudius.1 — But  now  farewell, 
as  I  have  nothing  more  to  write  to  you  at  present. 

VENICE,  August  28. 

The  belief  that  the  Middle  Age  was  an  age 
of  faith  has  so  long  found  universal  accept- 
ance that  Petrarch's  rencontre  with  a  group  of 
men  who  freely  made  sport  of  Christianity  may 
seem  anomalous  to  some.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  wide-spread  and  persistent  tendency 
toward  rationalism  and  materialism  in  the  uni- 
versities during  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries.  Christianity  was  evidently  repudi- 
ated by  no  inconsiderable  number,  for  the 
church  found  it  necessary  to  promulgate  a 
sweeping  condemnation  of  rationalistic  theses 
at  Paris  in  1277.  Early  in  the  thirteenth  cent- 

1  Who  was  fined  for  speaking  against  the  Roman  people. 


Literary  Contemporaries          215 

ury  Arabic  learning  had  begun  to  influence 
Western  Europe,  and  the  writings  of  Arabic 
philosophers,  especially  of  Averroes,1  became 
widely  known.  The  orthodox  schoolmen,  like 
Thomas  Aquinas,  gladly  made  use  of  his  com- 
mentary upon  Aristotle,  but  rejected  his  philoso- 
phic teachings  with  horror.  Others,  however, 
became  enamoured  of  the  Arabic  philosophy 
and  deserted  their  former  religious  beliefs,  even 
venturing  somewhat  publicly  to  denounce 
Christianity,  as  fit  only  for  those  who  were 
incapable  of  following  Averroes.  Among  the 
simple  and  devout,  the  Arabian  became  an 
object  of  mysterious  abhorrence,  so  that  Or- 
cagna  in  his  frescoes  gives  him  a  distinguished 
place  among  the  damned,  with  Mohammed 
and  Antichrist.2 

During  his  residence  in  Venice  and  Padua 
Petrarch  came  into  close  contact  with  the 
Averroists,  and  was  led  more  than  once,  in  his 
irritation  at  their  unbelief,  to  attack  them  vio- 
lently.3 Of  their  philosophical  tenets  nothing 

1  A  corruption  of  the  Arabic  name  of  Ibn  Roschd,  who  died  in 
1198. 

8  For  this  whole  matter  see  Kenan's  charming  book,  Averroes. 
Also,  Renter's  Religiose  Aufkldrung  des  Mittelalters. 

3  Especially  remarkable  in  this  connection  is  the  curious  work  De 
Suiipsius  et  Aliorum  Ignorantia,  the  origin  of  which  may  be  briefly 
described.  A  group  of  Petrarch's  young  Averroist  friends  happened 
one  day  in  a  post-prandial  conversation  to  discuss  among  them- 


216  Petrarch 

need  be  said  here,  as  Petrarch  probably 
troubled  himself  but  little  about  their  doc- 
trines. It  was  enough  for  him  that  they 
called  Paul  a  madman  and  looked  upon  Au- 
gustine and  Ambrose  as  prating  fools.  The 
real  interest  of  Petrarch's  assault  upon  the 
Averroists  lies  not  so  much  in  his  rejection 
of  their  heresies  as  in  his  attitude  toward  the 
intellectual  hero  of  the  Middle  Ages,  Aris- 
totle, who  was  the  accepted  authority  of  those 
who  rejected,  as  well  as  of  those  who  implicitly 
trusted,  the  Gospel.  The  importance  of  this 
has,  however,  already  been  noted.1 

We  have  seen  how  little  Petrarch  was  in 
sympathy  with  the  intellectual  interests  of  his 
time.  The  vast  theological  literature  of  the 
thirteenth  century  was  neither  represented  in 
his  library  nor  noticed  in  his  works.  Pure 
logic,  which  was  then  looked  upon  not  only  as 

selves  his  real  claim  to  distinction.  They  decided  that  his  fame 
rested  largely  upon  the  mistaken  and  ill-judged  attentions  of  popes 
and  princes,  and  that,  although  a  good  man,  he  could  not  be  regarded 
as  a  person  of  great  knowledge  or  literary  power.  This  frank  esti- 
mate of  his  ability  reached  the  ears  of  Petrarch  and  naturally  irritated 
the  now  failing  old  man,  accustomed  for  many  years  to  the  world's 
adulation.  The  reply,  written  a  year  later,  shows  unmistakable  signs 
of  wounded  pride  and  vanity.  The  criticism  of  the  young  men  was,  he 
assumes,  dictated  purely  by  envy  of  his  reputation.  He  is  indeed  ig- 
norant, but  others  are  still  more  hopelessly  benighted — hence  the 
title,  Of  His  Own  Ignorance  and  That  of  Others.  Opera  (1581),  pp., 
1035-1059.  l  See  above,  pp.  37  sqq. 


Literary  Contemporaries          217 

the  necessary  foundation  of  all  sound  learning 
and  the  key  to  all  science  but  as  a  legitimate 
and  worthy  occupation  of  a  lifetime,  seemed 
to  him  an  essentially  elementary  subject,  fit 
only  for  boys.  As  he  refused  to  recognise  the 
supremacy  of  Aristotle  himself,  so  he  rejected 
the  absurd  claims  made  for  Aristotle's  dialec- 
tic. The  following  letter,  written  apparently 
while  he  was  still  a  young  man,  shows  how  cor- 
rectly he  estimated  the  real  educational  value 
of  a  study  with  which  his  predecessors  and 
contemporaries  were  so  notoriously  infatuated. 

His  Aversion  to  Logicians 
To  Tomasso  da  Messina  * 

It  is  hazardous  to  engage  an  enemy  who  longs 
rather  for  battle  than  for  victory.  You  write  to  me 
of  a  certain  old  logician  who  has  been  greatly  ex- 
cited by  my  letter,  as  if  I  condemned  his  art.  With 
a  growl  of  rage,  he  loudly  threatened  to  make  war 
in  turn  upon  our  studies,  in  a  letter  for  which,  you 
say,  you  have  waited  many  months  in  vain.  Do  not 
wait  longer ;  believe  me,  it  will  never  come.  He  re- 
tains some  traces  of  decency,  and  this  is  a  confession 
that  he  is  ashamed  of  his  style  or  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  ignorance.  The  most  implacable  in 
contests  with  the  tongue  will  not  resort  to  the  pen. 
They  are  reluctant  to  show  how  ill-armed  they  are, 
1  Fam,,  i.,  6. 


218  Petrarch 

and  so  follow  the  Parthian  system  of  warfare,  carried 
on  during  a  rapid  retreat,  by  letting  fly  a  shower  of 
winged  words  and  committing  their  shafts  to  the 
wind. 

It  is  foolhardy,  as  I  have  said,  to  accept  an  en- 
gagement with  these  fellows  upon  their  own  terms. 
It  is  indeed  from  the  fighting  itself  that  they  de- 
rive their  chief  pleasure;  their  object  is  not  to  dis- 
cover the  truth,  but  to  prolong  the  argument.  But 
you  know  Varro's  proverb:  "Through  over-long 
contention  the  truth  is  lost."  You  need  not  fear, 
then,  that  these  warriors  will  come  out  into  the 
open  fields  of  honest  discussion,  whether  with 
tongue  or  pen.  They  belong  to  the  class  of  whom 
Quintilian  speaks  in  his  Institutes  of  Oratory,  whom 
one  finds  wonderfully  warm  in  disputation,  but  once 
get  them  away  from  their  cavilling,  they  are  as 
helpless,  in  a  serious  juncture,  as  certain  small 
animals  which  are  active  enough  in  a  narrow  space, 
but  are  easily  captured  in  a  field.  Hence  their  re- 
luctance to  engage  in  an  open  contest.  As  Quin- 
tilian goes  on  to  say,  their  tergiversations  4ndicate 
their  weakness;  they  seek,  like  an  indifferent  runner, 
to  escape  by  dodging. 

This  is  what  I  would  impress  upon  you,  my 
friend ;  if  you  are  seeking  virtue  or  truth,  avoid  per- 
sons of  that  stripe  altogether.  But  how  shall  we 
escape  from  these  maniacs,  if  even  the  isles  of  the 
sea  are  not  free  from  them  ?  So  neither  Scylla  nor 
Charybdis  has  prevented  this  pest  from  finding  its 
way  into  Sicily  ? '  Nay,  this  ill  is  now  rather 

1  His  friend's  home. 


Literary  Contemporaries          219 

peculiar  to  islands,  as  we  shall  find  if  we  add  the 
logicians  of  Britain  to  the  new  Cyclopes  about  JEtna.. 
Is  this  the  ground  of  the  striking  similarity  between 
Sicily  and  Britain,  which  I  have  seen  mentioned  in 
Pomponius  Mela's  Cosmographia  ?  I  had  thought 
that  the  resemblance  lay  in  the  situation  of  the 
countries,  the  almost  triangular  appearance  of  both, 
and  perhaps  in  the  perpetual  contact  which  each  en- 
joys with  the  surrounding  sea.  I  never  thought  of 
logicians ;  I  had  heard  of  the  Cyclopes,  and  then  of 
the  tyrants,  both  savage  inhabitants;  but  of  the 
coming  of  this  third  race  of  monsters,  armed  with 
two-edged  arguments,  and  fiercer  than  the  burning 
shores  of  Taormina  itself,  I  was  unaware. 

There  is  one  thing  which  I  myself  long  ago  ob- 
served, and  of  which  you  now  warn  me  anew.  These 
logicians  seek  to  cover  their  teachings  with  the 
splendour  of  Aristotle's  name  ;  they  claim  that 
Aristotle  was  wont  to  argue  in  the  same  way.  They 
would  have  some  excuse,  I  readily  confess,  if  they  fol- 
lowed in  the  steps  of  illustrious  leaders,  for  even 
Cicero  says  that  it  would  give  him  pleasure  to  err 
with  Plato,  if  err  he  must.  But  they  all  deceive 
themselves.  Aristotle  was  a  man  of  the  most  exalted 
genius,  who  not  only  discussed  but  wrote  upon 
themes  of  the  very  highest  importance.  How 
can  we  otherwise  explain  so  vast  an  array  of  works, 
involving  such  prolonged  labour,  and  prepared  with 
supreme  care  amid  such  serious  preoccupations — es- 
pecially those  connected  with  the  guardianship  of  his 
fortunate  pupil — and  within  the  compass,  too,  of  a 
life  by  no  means  long  ? — for  he  died  at  about  sixty- 


220  Petrarch 

three,  the  age  which  all  writers  deem  so  unlucky. 
Now  why  should  these  fellows  diverge  so  widely  from 
the  path  of  their  leader  ?  Why  is  not  the  name  of 
Aristotelians  a  source  of  shame  to  them  rather  than 
of  satisfaction,  for  no  one  could  be  more  utterly 
different  from  that  great  philosopher  than  a  man 
who  writes  nothing,  knows  but  little,  and  constantly 
indulges  in  much  vain  declamation  ?  Who  does  not 
laugh  at  their  trivial  conclusions,  with  which,  al- 
though educated  men,1  they  weary  both  themselves 
and  others?  They  waste  their  whole  lives  in  such 
contentions.  Not  only  are  they  good  for  nothing 
else,  but  their  perverted  activity  renders  them 
actually  harmful.  Disputations  such  as  they  de- 
light in  are  made  a  subject  of  mirth  by  Cicero 
and  Seneca,  in  several  passages.  We  find  an 
example  in  the  case  of  Diogenes,  whom  a  con- 
tentious logician  addressed  as  follows:  "  What  I 
am,  you  are  not."  Upon  Diogenes  conceding 
this,  the  logician  added,  "  But  I  am  a  man."  As 
this  was  not  denied,  the  poor  quibbler  pro- 
pounded the  conclusion,  "  Therefore  you  are  not  a 
man."  '  The  last  statement  is  not  true,"  Dio- 
genes remarked,  "  but  if  you  wish  it  to  be  true, 
begin  with  me  in  your  major  premise."  Similar 
absurdities  are  common  enough  with  them.  What 
they  hope  to  gain  from  their  efforts,  whether  fame 
or  amusement,  or  some  light  upon  the  way  to  live 
righteously  and  happily,  they  may  know ;  to  me,  I 

1  Homines  litterati^  probably  simply   those  versed  in   the   Latin 
tongue. 


Literary  Contemporaries          221 

confess,  it  is  the  greatest  of  mysteries.  Money, 
certainly,  does  not  appeal  at  least  to  noble  minds  as 
a  worthy  reward  of  study.  It  is  for  the  mechanical 
trades  to  strive  for  lucre;  the  higher  arts  have  a 
more  generous  end  in  view. 

On  hearing  such  things  as  these,  those  of  whom 
we  are  speaking  grow  furious ; — indeed  the  chatter  of 
the  disputatious  man  usually  verges  closely  on  anger. 

So  you  set  yourself  up  to  condemn  logic,"  they 
cry.  Far  from  it ;  I  know  well  in  what  esteem  it 
was  held  by  that  sturdy  and  virile  sect  of  philo- 
sophers, the  Stoics,  whom  our  Cicero  frequently 
mentions,  especially  in  his  work  De  Finibus.  I 
know  that  it  is  one  of  the  liberal  studies,  a  ladder 
for  those  who  are  striving  upwards,  and  by  no  means 
a  useless  protection  to  those  who  are  forcing  their 
way  through  the  thorny  thickets  of  philosophy.  It 
stimulates  the  intellect,  points  out  the  way  of  truth, 
shows  us  how  to  avoid  fallacies,  and  finally,  if  it  ac- 
complishes nothing  else,  makes  us  ready  and  quick- 
witted. 

All  this  I  readily  admit,  but  because  a  road  is 
proper  for  us  to  traverse,  it  does  not  immediately 
follow  that  we  should  linger  on  it  forever.  No 
traveller,  unless  he  be  mad,  will  forget  his  destina- 
tion on  account  of  the  pleasures  of  the  way;  his 
characteristic  virtue  lies,  on  the  contrary,  in  reach- 
ing his  goal  as  soon  as  possible,  never  halting  on  the 
road.  And  who  of  us  is  not  a  traveller  ?  We  all 
have  our  long  and  arduous  journey  to  accomplish  in 
a  brief  and  untoward  time, — on  a  short,  tempest- 
uous, wintry  day  as  it  were.  Dialectics  may  form  a 


222  Petrarch 

portion  of  our  road,  but  certainly  not  its  end :  it  be- 
longs to  the  morning  of  life,  not  to  its  evening.  We 
may  have  done  once  with  perfect  propriety  what  it 
would  be  shameful  to  continue.  If  as  mature  men 
we  cannot  leave  the  schools  of  logic  because  we  have 
found  pleasure  in  them  as  boys,  why  should  we  blush 
to  play  odd  and  even,  or  prance  upon  a  shaky  reed, 
or  be  rocked  again  in  the  cradle  of  our  childhood  ? 
Nature,  with  cunning  artifice,  escapes  from  dull 
monotony  by  her  wondrous  change  of  seasons,  with 
their  varying  aspects.  Shall  we  look  for  these 
alternations  in  the  circuit  of  the  year,  and  not 
in  the  course  of  a  long  life  ?  The  spring  brings 
flowers  and  the  new  leaves  of  the  trees,  the  summer 
is  rich  in  its  harvest,  autumn  in  fruit,  and  then 
comes  winter  with  its  snows.  In  this  order  the 
changes  are  not  only  tolerable  but  agreeable;  but 
if  the  order  were  to  be  altered,  against  the  laws  of 
nature,  they  would  become  distasteful.  No  one 
would  suffer  with  equanimity  the  cold  of  winter  in 
summer  time,  or  a  raging  sun  during  the  months 
where  it  does  not  belong. 

Who  would  not  scorn  and  deride  an  old  man  who 
sported  with  children,  or  marvel  at  a  grizzled  and 
gouty  stripling  ?  What  is  more  necessary  to  our 
training  than  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  alpha- 
bet itself,  which  serves  as  the  foundation  of  all 
later  studies ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  what  could  be 
more  absurd  than  a  grandfather  still  busy  over  his 
letters  ? 

Use  my  arguments  with  the  disciples  of  your  an- 
cient logician.  Do  not  deter  them  from  the  study 


Literary  Contemporaries          223 

of  logic ;  urge  them  rather  to  hasten  through  it  to 
better  things.  Tell  the  old  fellow  himself  that  it  is 
not  the  liberal  arts  which  I  condemn,  but  only  hoary- 
headed  children.  Even  as  nothing  is  more  disgrace- 
ful, as  Seneca  says,  than  an  old  man  just  beginning 
his  alphabet,  so  there  is  no  spectacle  more  unseemly 
than  a  person  of  mature  years  devoting  himself  to 
dialectics.  But  if  your  friend  begins  to  vomit  forth 
syllogisms,  I  advise  you  to  take  flight,  bidding  him 
argue  with  Enceladus.1  Farewell. 
AVIGNON,  March  n. 

1  It  is  interesting  to  compare  these  views  with  those  of  John 
of  Salisbury  who,  writing  almost  two  centuries  before  the  time  of 
Petrarch's  letter  says  :  "It  seemed  to  me  pleasant  to  revisit  my  old 
companions  on  the  Mount  [of  St.  Genevieve  at  Paris],  whom  I  had 
left  and  whom  dialectic  still  detained,  and  to  confer  with  them  touch- 
ing the  old  subjects  of  debate,  that  we  might  by  mutual  comparison 
measure  our  respective  progress.  I  found  them  as  before,  and  where 
they  were  before  ;  they  did  not  appear  to  have  advanced  an  inch  in 
settling  the  old  questions,  nor  had  they  added  a  single  proposition. 
The  aims  that  once  inspired  them  inspired  them  still  ;  they  had  pro- 
gressed in  one  point  only,  they  had  unlearned  moderation,  they  knew 
not  modesty  ;  and  that  to  such  an  extent  that  one  might  despair  of 
their  recovery.  So  experience  taught  me  a  manifest  conclusion,  that, 
while  logic  furthers  other  studies,  it  is  by  itself  lifeless  and  barren, 
nor  can  it  cause  the  mind  to  yield  the  fruit  of  philosophy  except  the 
same  conceive  from  some  other  source."  Migne,  Pat.  Lat.,  vol. 
cxcix.,  p.  869. 


Ill 

THE  FATHER  OF  HUMANISM 


Quae  cum  scholae  atque  aevi  comitibus  quaedam  quasi 
somnia  viderentur,  mihi  jam  tune,  omnia  videntem  tester 
Deum,  et  vera  et  paene  praesentia  videbantur. 

Fam.,  xxiv.,  i. 


226 


C  VERY  age  has  a  philosophy  of  life,  which 
*-"  reaches  and  affects,  in  greater  or  less 
degree,  the  thought  and  action  of  all  of  its 
members.  To  the  centuries  before  Petrarch 
the  world  was  a  place  in  which  to  prepare  for 
a  life  beyond ;  the  noblest  subject  of  thought 
was  theology ;  the  saving  of  the  soul  was  the 
one  important  task.  The  centuries  since  have 
realised  in  some  measure  that  the  present  life 
is  precious  in  itself,  and  is  not  to  be  thus  sub- 
ordinated. This  shifting  of  the  view  is  of  im- 
mense significance  ;  and  it  is  owing  to  Petrarch, 
more  than  to  any  other  one  man. 

The  process  was,  after  all,  not  so  much  a 
shifting  as  a  blending,  a  powerful  modifica- 
tion of  the  mediaeval  notions  by  those  of  the 
ancient  world.  The  ancients  frankly  delighted 
in  sensuous  beauty,  and  felt  an  unrestrained 
joy  in  mere  living,  and  trusted  nature  and 
the  natural  impulses.  They  were  thoroughly 
human,  and  the  return  to  them  humanised 


227 


228  Petrarch 

the  narrow  conceptions  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
And  this  return  was  largely  Petrarch's  work. 

Men  had  conversed  with  the  classics  before 
his  day.  They  were  by  no  means  unstudied 
in  mediaeval  times.  John  of  Salisbury,  for 
example,  in  the  twelfth  century,  had  known 
almost  as  many  of  the  Roman  poets  and  moral- 
ists and  historians  as  Petrarch  himself.  He 
had  known  them,  however,  and  used  them,  in  a 
very  different  fashion.  He  had  read  them  with 
no  surrender  to  their  charm,  and  no  response 
to  their  views  concerning  life  and  its  uses. 
We  wonder  at  his  knowledge  of  the  text  of 
his  classical  authors,  and  at  the  aptness  With 
which  he  cites  them  in  illustration  of  his 
thought ;  but  we  wonder  still  more  at  his  utter 
inability  to  understand  their  attitude,  to  find 
their  point  of  view.  Lifelong  intercourse  with 
them  failed  to  widen  his  range  of  vision. 
Despite  their  influence  he  remained  mediaeval 
in  all  his  thought. 

But  with  Petrarch  it  was  otherwise.  He 
first,  among  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was 
endowed  with  a  passionate  love  for  the  beauty 
of  ancient  literature,  and  an  entire  sympathy 
with  its  ruling  ideas,,  and  at  the  same  time, 
it  must  be  observed,  with  a  saving  incapacity 
to  foresee  the  disintegration  of  thought  and 


The  Father  of  Humanism        229 

faith  that  in  the  long  run  would  inevitably 
result  from  such  sympathy.  Both  in  his 
strength  and  in  his  weakness  he  was  eminently 
fitted  to  be  the  founder,  or  furtherer,  of 
Humanism. 

Petrarch's  love  of  the  classics  began  in 
admiration  of  their  more  superficial  charm, 
which  is  just  what  would  be  expected  of  the 
youth  who  wrote  the  graceful  lyrics  of  the 
Canzoniere.  But  this  feeling  developed  soon 
into  a  perception  of  their  deeper  beauty  and  sig- 
nificance. At  the  time  when  he  first  becomes 
thoroughly  known  to  us  as  a  student  of  anti- 
quity we  are  amazed  at  the  justness  of  his  appre- 
ciation. Only  occasionally  does  he  betray  the 
fact  that  he  is  a  man  of  the  Middle  Ages,  ham- 
pered by  a  narrow  intellectual  inheritance  ;  and 
that  his  work  is  that  of  a  pioneer,  in  a  country 
which  is  absolutely  unexplored. 

Of  these  rare  limitations  we  detect  the  few- 
est traces  in  his  criticism  of  Cicero.  This  may 
be  accounted  for  largely  on  the  ground  that 
Cicero  and  Petrarch  were  men  of  the  same 
temperament  and  cast  of  mind.  They  were 
both  typical  men  of  letters.  The  man  of 
letters  is  intellectually  alert ;  sensitive  to  im- 
pressions and  able  to  report  them  ;  hospitable 
to  all  the  ideas  of  his  time  ;  sometimes  incon- 


230  Petrarch 

sistent,  because  of  this  very  catholicity ;  and 
often  despised  in  consequence  by  practical 
men,  although  in  reality  more  practical  than 
they,  inasmuch  as  he  has  the  art  of  communi- 
cating his  flashes  of  insight  and  his  generous 
enthusiasm  to  others,  who  in  the  end  reconcile 
his  inconsistencies  and  make  his  dreams  come 
true.  This  is  an  exceptional  character,  but 
Cicero  sustained  it  fully,  and  so  did  Petrarch 
too.  They  were  thus  of  the  same  stamp. 
Moreover,  their  circumstances  were  similar 
in  many  respects.  Cicero's  task  as  an  inter- 
preter of  Greek  thought  was  not  unlike  Pe- 
trarch's life-work.  It  was  impossible,  with  all 
these  likenesses,  that  the  one,  however  defect- 
ive his  knowledge,  should  fail  to  comprehend 
the  other. 

Petrarch's  letters  afford  countless  illustrations 
of  the  truth  of  these  statements.  In  outward 
form,  to  be  sure,  and  once  in  a  while  in  their 
material  and  the  treatment  of  it,  they  suggest 
rather  Seneca  than  Cicero.  That,  however,  is 
easily  explained.  Petrarch's  epistolary  ways 
had  been  fully  determined  before  ever  he  saw 
Cicero's  correspondence,  or  any  portion  of  it.1 

1  He  did  not  discover  the  group  Ad  Atticum  until  1345,  when  he 
was  more  than  forty  years  old.  And  Voigt  and  Viertel  have  shown 
that  the  very  existence  of  the  Ad  Familiares  was  unknown  to  him. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        231 

So  it  was  quite  impossible  that  he  should  fol- 
low him  in  matters  of  fashion  and  form.  But 
in  spirit  and  intention,  in  all  their  deeper 
affinities,  the  letters  are  distinctly  Ciceronian, 
akin  to  Cicero's  essays  and  treatises.  Cicero's 
style  is  plainly  Petrarch's  ideal,  although  he  is 
too  wise  to  imitate  it  slavishly.  And  he  falls, 
at  his  best,  not  very  far  short  of  Cicero's  clear- 
ness and  animation,  his  variety,  his  aptness  of 
quotation  and  illustration.  A  clearer  case  of 
sympathetic  comprehension  of  another,  and 
of  reproduction  without  imitation,  it  would  be 
hard  to  find. 

Next  to  Cicero,  Petrarch  cared  most  among 
Roman  writers  for  Virgil.  One  would  have 
expected  to  find  this  order  reversed, — to  find 
the  poet  of  the  Africa  far  more  devoted  to 
his  great  forerunner  than  to  one  who  was 
essentially  unpoetical,  a  rhetorician  and  pro- 
saist. The  explanation  of  the  seeming  anomaly 
is  twofold.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  in  tem- 
perament only  that  Petrarch  was  a  poet,  and 
not,  after  the  splendid  lyrical  outburst  of  the 
Canzoniere,  in  the  whole  compass  of  his 
thought  and  feeling.  He  could  not  have 
done  the  work  which  he  did  if  it  had  been 
otherwise.  It  was  necessary  that  the  first 
Humanist  should  combine  with  the  poet's 


232  Petrarch 

openness  of  mind,  and  love  of  whatever  is 
beautiful,  scholarly  patience  and  a  willingness 
to  lead  a  scholar's  life.  And  then,  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  Petrarch  was  debarred  from  full 
appreciation  of  Virgil  by  an  inability  to  escape 
from  the  dominion  of  certain  mediaeval  con- 
ceptions of  poetry. 

For  one  thing,  he  valued  poetry  largely  in 
proportion  as  it  is  made  the  vehicle  of  criticism 
of  life,  of  the  more  obvious  sort.  One  is  sur- 
prised, in  examining  the  numerous  quotations 
from  Virgil  that  are  scattered  throughout  the 
letters,  to  find  how  invariably  they  are  chosen 
either  because  they  are  strikingly  rhetorical  in 
form  or  in  consequence  of  their  didactic 
quality^  Poetry  seems  to  have  become  to  Pe- 
\  trarch,  as  his  life  and  his  studies  advanced  and 
he  drew  farther  away  in  time  and  temper  from 
\his  early  creative  period,  little  more  than  a 
somewhat  finer  form  of  prose.  Virgil,  with  all 
his  reverence  for  him,  was  not  unlike  another 
Cicero.  He  says  in  one  of  his  letters  :  "  Our 
beloved  Cicero  is  beyond  doubt  the  father  of 
Latin  eloquence.  Next  to  him  comes  Virgil. 
Or  perhaps,  since  there  are  some  who  dislike 
the  order  in  which  I  am  placing  them,  I  had 
better  say  that  Tullius  and  Maro  are  the  two 
parents  of  Roman  literature."  Such  remarks, 


The  Father  of  Humanism        233 

which  are  not  infrequent,  are  indicative  of  an 
incapacity  to  feel  keenly  and  enjoy  deeply  what 
is  finest  in  Virgil.  Petrarch  seems  to  us  to- 
day like  a  child,  who  values  the  beautiful 
commonplaces  of  the  poet  more  highly  than 
his  occasional  soundings  of  the  depths  and 
mysteries  of  life.  He  had  no  adequate  ap- 
preciation of  Virgil's  '  majestic  sadness/  his 
'pathetic  half  lines/  his  'tears  for  the  things 
that  are/ 

To  this  same  insensitiveness  on  the  aesthetic 
side  we  must  ascribe  Petrarch's  inability  to  free 
himself  from  the  mediaeval  delusion  as  to  the 
profound  allegorical  significance  of  the  s&neid, 
and  of  all  other  noble  poetry  as  well.  A  true 
poet  may  entertain  very  strange  theories  con- 
cerning the  nature  of  his  art,  but  in  his  better 
moments  he  will  rise  above  them  and  uncon- 
sciously belie  them,  both  in  his  practice  and  in 
his  criticism  of  others.  This  Petrarch,  after 
his  early  youth,  never  did.  His  highest  aim 
in  his  own  poetical  compositions  was  to  set  \ 
forth  moral  truths  under  an  obscure  veil  of 
allegory,  and  his  greatest  delight  in  studying 
the  poets  of  antiquity  was  to  penetrate  the  veil 
under  which  he  believed  they  had  hidden  their 
wisdom.  Dante's  chance  lines  in  the  ninth 
book  of  the  Inferno  give  exact  expression 


234  Petrarch 

to  this  ruling  thought  of  his  : 

O  voi  che  avete  gl'  intelletti  sani, 
Mirate  la  dottrina  che  s'  asconde 
Sotto  il  velame  degli  versi  strani ! 

Dante's  application  of  this  idea,  however,  was 
one  thing  and  Petrarch's  another.  Petrarch 
aimed  at  nothing  worthier  than  a  multitude  of 
minute  and  trivial  correspondences.  The  ef- 
fect upon  his  verse  is  indicated  by  the  letter  to 
his  brother  Gherardo  which  is  given  toward 
the  close  of  this  chapter.  The  effect  upon  his 
criticism  may  be  learned  by  examining  certain 
other  letters,  in  the  Seniles.  In  one  of  these 
he  says : 1 

"  Virgil's  subject,  as  I  understand  the  matter, 
is  The  Perfect  Man.  ...  In  the  passage 
that  you  ask  me  to  explain  I  look  upon  the 
winds  as  nothing  more  nor  less  than  blasts  of 
anger  and  mad  desire,  which  disturb  with  their 
wild  storms  the  quiet  of  our  life,  as  tempests 
do  some  tranquil  sea.  ^Eolus  is  our  reason, 
which  curbs  and  controls  these  headstrong 
passions.  If  it  did  not  do  so  they  would  sweep 
away  sea  and  land  and  the  overarching  sky, 
that  is,  our  blood  and  flesh  and  bones  and  our 
very  souls,  and  plunge  them  down  to  death 

1  Sen.,  iv.,  4 


The  Father  of  Humanism        235 

and  destruction  : 

.     .     .     maria  ac  terras  coelumque  profundum 
quippe  ferant  rapid!  secum. 

The  dark  caverns  where  Virgil  represents 
them  as  being  hidden  away,  what  are  they  but 
the  hollow  and  hidden  parts  of  our  bodies, 
where,  according  to  Plato's  determination,  the 
passions  dwell  in  abodes  of  their  own,  in  the 
breast  and  entrails  ?  The  mountain  mass  which 
is  placed  above  them  is  the  head,  where  Plato 
thinks  the  reason  has  its  home.  .  .  .  Venus, 
who  meets  them  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
is  pleasure,  whose  pursuit  by  us  becomes  hot- 
ter and  keener  toward  the  middle  of'  our  life. 
Her  assumption  of  a  maidenly  look  and  air 
is  for  the  purpose  of  deceiving  the  unwary. 
If  we  saw  her  as  she  is  we  should  flee  from  her 
in  fear  and  trembling ;  for,  as  there  is  nothing 
more  tempting  than  pleasure,  so  there  is  no- 
thing more  foul.  Her  garments  are  girded  up 
because  her  flight  is  swift.  For  this  same  rea- 
son she  is  compared  to  the  swiftest  of  creatures 
and  things.1  It  cannot  be  denied  that  nothing 
swifter  exists,  whether  you  consider  her  com- 
prehensively or  part  by  part ;  for  pleasure  as  a 
whole  passes  from  us  very  soon,  and  even 

1 quails  equos  Threissa  fatigat 

Harpalyce  volucremque  fuga  prsevertitur  Hebrum. 


236  Petrarch 

while  it  still  abides  with  us  each  taste  of  it 
lasts  but  a  moment.  And  then,  finally,  she 
appears  in  the  garb  of  a  huntress,  because  she 
hunts  for  the  souls  of  miserable  mortals.  And 
she  has  a  bow,  and  has  flowing  hair,  in  order 
that  she  may  smite  us  and  charm  us."  l 

Petrarch's  love  for  Cicero  and  Virgil  sprang 
from  what  one  may  call  the  fundamental  hu- 
manistic impulse,  delight  in  the  jree  play  of 
the  mind  among  ideas  that  j.re  stimulating  and 
beautiful.  His  devotion  to  Livy  came,  in  part, 
from  a  different  source,  from  a  singular  sort  of 
patriotism.  He  felt  that  he,  and  every  other 
Italian  of  his  day,  was  descended  in  a  certain 
sense  from  the  Romans  of  old  ;  that  their  glory 
was  his  rightful  heritage  ;  that  Rome,  the  an- 
cient Rome,  which  he  found  still  in  existence 
beneath  the  wretched  mediaeval  stronghold, 
was  the  city  of  his  love  and  allegiance.  Livy's 
pages  accordingly  were  to  him  the  record  of 
the  great  deeds  of  his  forefathers.  He  studied 
them  with  the  utmost  eagerness. 

Under  the  influence  of  one  or  the  other  of 
these  two  passions,  the  thirst  for  new  truth  and 
beauty  and  the  love  of  the  past,  or  of  both  of 
them  in  conjunction,  Petrarch  laboured  strenu- 
ously, until  he  had  gathered  together  from  a 

1  Petrarch  sometimes  applies  this  method  of  criticism  more  wisely 
and  with  better  results.     Cf.  Fam.,  xiv.,  i   (vol.  ii.,  pp.  268,  269). 


The  Father  of  Humanism        237 

hundred  obscure  sources  all  the  remains  of  Ro- 
man literature  that  were  obtainable  in  his  day, 
and  had  made  himself  familiar  with  them. 
Greek  literature,  unfortunately,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  know.  In  spite  of  a  lifelong 
desire,  and  at  least  one  determined  effort,  he 
was  unable  to  acquire  even  a  rudimentary 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  language.1  He  read 
in  barren  Latin  translations  more  or  less  of 
Plato  and  Aristotle  and  Homer,  but  this  could 
afford  him  nothing  like  an  adequate  concep- 
tion of  the  power  and  beauty  of  the  literature 
as  a  whole.  It  is  a  sad  pity  that  he  was  so 
handicapped,  for  if  the  first  Humanist  had 
known  and  appreciated  Homer  and  Plato  and 
Sophocles,  as  he  did  Cicero  and  Virgil  and  Sen- 
eca and  Livy,  all  our  modern  culture  would  be 
something  far  finer.  We  should  be  simpler  and 
clearer  in  our  conceptions,  and  better  developed 
aesthetically.  If  Hellenic  influences  have  never 
played  their  due  part  in  our  education,  if  the 
proportion  between  the  Greek  and  the  Roman 
elements  has  been  unnatural,  this  is  owing 
mainly  to  the  insufficient  opportunities  of  Pe- 
trarch and  his  earliest  disciples. 

1  There  was  no  apparatus  for  the  study  of  Greek  at  that  time. 
Oral  instruction  from  Greek  or  Byzantine  scholars  was  the  only  pos- 
sible means  of  access  to  the  great  writers  of  the  past.  Such  instruc- 
tion was  difficult  to  secure,  as  Petrarch's  efforts  and  failure  prove. 


238  Petrarch 

To  the  classical  authors  that  he  did  possess 
he  devoted  a  prolonged  and  intense  study  that 
has  very  rarely  been  equalled.  He  followed 
faithfully  his  own  injunctions  given  in  the  De 
Remediis  Utriusque  Fortune? :  "If  you  would 
win  glory  from  your  books  you  must  know 
them,  and  not  merely  have  them ;  must 
stow  them  away,  not  in  your  library,  but  in 
your  memory,  not  in  your  bookcases,  but 
in  your  brain."  Annotations  in  his  hand  on 
the  manuscripts  that  have  been  traced  back 
to  him1  show  that  he  weighed  with  care  every 
word  of  his  favourite  writers.  But  external 
evidence  like  this  is  not  necessary.  Every 
page  of  his  letters,  and  of  all  his  other  Latin 
writings  too,  is  proof  in  itself  that  as  far  as 
his  limitations  permitted  he  had  absorbed  the 
very  spirit  of  his  beloved  classics. 

The  letters  show  also  how  eager  he  was  to 
hand  on  to  others  the  light  that  he  had  gained 
from  these  studies.  He  had  as  wide  and  varied 
an  acquaintance  as  any  man  of  his  time,  thanks 
to  the  fame  that  he  had  won  in  his  youth  by 
his  verses,  and  to  the  attraction  that  he  exer- 
cised upon  everyone  in  later  life,  through  his 
personal  charm  and  his  remarkable  intellectual 
powers  ;  and  one  of  the  inevitable  consequences 
of  such  a  connection  was  a  correspondence  that 

1  Through  the  patience  and  ingenuity  of  M.  de  Nolhac. 


•:     8 


The  Father  of  Humanism         239 

was  both  active  and  large.  He  wrote  to  the 
emperor  and  the  pope,  to  kings  and  their  re- 
gents, to  churchmen  of  every  degree,  to  schol- 
ars in  almost  all  parts  of  Europe,  to  men  of 
every  profession,  every  age,  every  taste  ;  and 
he  wrote  always  as  a  Humanist,  a  lover  of  the 
classics,  who  found  in  them  the  quintessence 
of  human  wisdom.  Men  everywhere  were 
ready  for  broader  views,  deeper  knowledge, 
keener  life,  and  he,  through  these  letters  and 
through  personal  contact,  stimulated  their  long- 
ing and  showed  them  where  they  might  find 
that  which  would  satisfy  it.  The  influence  that 
he  thus  exerted  is  incalculable.  This  volume  is 
but  an  effort  to  give  some  comprehension  of  it. 

Of  the  letters  that  follow  the  first  four  are 
given  for  the  sake  of  showing  the  range  and 
quality  of  Petrarch's  classical  scholarship. 
They  are  taken,  with  one  exception,  from  the 
letters  to  dead  authors,  which  constitute  a 
large  part  of  the  twenty-fourth  book  of  the 
Familiares.  The  first  is  addressed  to  Cicero. 

To  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero? 

Your  letters  I  sought  for  long  and  diligently ;  and 
finally,  where  I  least  expected  it,  I  found  them.  At 
once  I  read  them,  over  and  over,  with  the  utmost 

1  Fam.,  xxiv.,  3.  This  epistle  was  written  very  soon  after 
Petrarch's  discovery,  at  Verona,  of  the  Letters  to  Atticus  and  Quintus 


240  Petrarch 

eagerness.  And  as  I  read  I  seemed  to  hear  your 
bodily  voice,  O  Marcus  Tullius,  saying  many  things, 
uttering  many  lamentations,  ranging  through  many 
phases  of  thought  and  feeling.  I  long  had  known 
how  excellent  a  guide  you  have  proved  for  others ; 
at  last  I  was  to  learn  what  sort  of  guidance  you  gave 
yourself. 

Now  it  is  your  turn  to  be  the  listener.  Heark- 
en, wherever  you  are,  to  the  words  of  advice,  or 
rather  of  sorrow  and  regret,  that  fall,  not  unaccom- 
panied by  tears,  from  the  lips  of  one  of  your  suc- 
cessors, who  loves  you  faithfully  and  cherishes  your 
name.  O  spirit  ever  restless  and  perturbed !  in  old 
age — I  am  but  using  your  own  words — self-involved 
in  calamities  and  ruin!  what  good  could  you  think 
would  come  from  your  incessant  wrangling,  from  all 
this  wasteful  strife  and  enmity  ?  Where  were  the 
peace  and  quiet  that  befitted  your  years,  your  pro- 
fession, your  station  in  life  ?  What  Will-o'-the-wisp 
tempted  you  away,  with  a  delusive  hope  of  glory ; 
involved  you,  in  your  declining  years,  in  the  wars 
of  younger  men ;  and,  after  exposing  you  to  every 
form  of  misfortune,  hurled  you  down  to  a  death 
that  it  was  unseemly  for  a  philosopher  to  die  ? 
Alas!  the  wise  counsel  that  you  gave  your  brother, 
and  the  salutary  advice  of  your  great  masters,  you 

and  the  Correspondence  with  Brutus,  known  collectively  as  the  Letters 
addressed  to  Attic  us.  It  undoubtedly  gives  us  the  impressions  derived 
from  the  first  eager  perusal  of  these. 

It  will  be  observed  that  Petrarch  is  less  at  his  ease  here  than  in  his 
ordinary  correspondence.  One  feels  in  all  his  letters  to  the  great 
men  of  the  past  a  certain  constraint.  He  was  awe-struck,  and  his 
style  consequently  is  a  little  self-conscious  and  laboured. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        241 

forgot.  You  were  like  a  traveller  in  the  night, 
whose  torch  lights  up  for  others  the  path  where  he 
himself  has  miserably  fallen. 

Of  Dionysius  I  forbear  to  speak;  of  your  brother 
and  nephew,  too;  of  Dolabella  even,  if  you  like. 
At  one  moment  you  praise  them  all  to  the  skies ;  at 
the  next  fall  upon  them  with  sudden  maledictions. 
This,  however,  could  perhaps  be  pardoned.  I  will 
pass  by  Julius  Caesar,  too,  whose  well-approved 
clemency  was  a  harbour  of  refuge  for  the  very  men 
who  were  warring  against  him.  Great  Pompey,  like- 
wise, I  refrain  from  mentioning.  His  affection  for 
you  was  such  that  you  could  do  with  him  what  you 
would.  But  what  insanity  led  you  to  hurl  yourself 
upon  Antony  ?  Love  of  the  republic,  you  would 
probably  say.  But  the  republic  had  fallen  before 
this  into  irretrievable  ruin,  as  you  had  yourself  ad- 
mitted. Still,  it  is  possible  that  a  lofty  sense  of 
duty,  and  love  of  liberty,  constrained  you  to  do  as 
you  did,  hopeless  though  the  effort  was.  That  we 
can  easily  believe  of  so  great  a  man.  But  why,  then, 
were  you  so  friendly  with  Augustus  ?  What  an- 
swer can  you  give  to  Brutus  ?  If  you  accept  Octa- 
vius,  said  he,  we  must  conclude  that  you  are  not  so 
anxious  to  be  rid  of  all  tyrants  as  to  find  a  tyrant 
who  will  be  well-disposed  toward  yourself.  Now, 
unhappy  man,  you  were  to  take  the  last  false  step, 
the  last  and  most  deplorable.  You  began  to  speak 
ill  of  the  very  friend  whom  you  had  so  lauded,  al- 
though he  was  not  doing  any  ill  to  you,  but  merely 
refusing  to  prevent  others  who  were.  I  grieve,  dear 
friend,  at  such  fickleness.  These  shortcomings  fill 


242  Petrarch 

me  with  pity  and  shame.  Like  Brutus,  I  feel  no 
confidence  in  the  arts  in  which  you  are  so  proficient. 
What,  pray,  does  it  profit  a  man  to  teach  others, 
and  to  be  prating  always  about  virtue,  in  high- 
sounding  words,  if  he  fails  to  give  heed  to  his  own 
instructions  ?  Ah !  how  much  better  it  would  have 
been,  how  much  more  fitting  for  a  philosopher,  to 
have  grown  old  peacefully  in  the  country,  meditat- 
ing, as  you  yourself  have  somewhere  said,  upon  the 
life  that  endures  for  ever,  and  not  upon  this  poor 
fragment  of  life ;  to  have  known  no  fasces,  yearned 
for  no  triumphs,  found  no  Catilines  to  fill  the  soul 
with  ambitious  longings  ! — All  this,  however,  is 
vain.  Farewell,  forever,  my  Cicero. 

Written  in  the  land  of  the  living;  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Adige,  in  Verona,  a  city  of  Transpadane 
Italy;  on  the  i6th  of  June,  and  in  the  year  of  that 
God  whom  you  never  knew  the  1 345th. 

With  that  should  go  the  following  interesting 
little  account  of  a  controversy  between  Petrarch 
and  a  certain  aged  scholar  whom  he  met  in  the 
course  of  one  of  his  journeys.  Nothing  could 
afford  a  clearer  insight  into  either  the  nature  of 
Petrarch's  own  feeling  for  the  classics  or  the 
general  humanistic  conditions  of  the  time. 
This  is  one  of  the  letters,  as  the  opening  sen- 
tences show,  that  were  carefully  revised  for 
the  public. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        243 

The  Old  Grammarian  of  Vicenza. 
To  Pulice  di  Vicenza? 

On  my  way  I  stopped  overnight  in  one  of  Vicenza's 
suburbs,  and  there  I  found  something  new  to  write 
about.  It  happened  that  I  had  left  Padua  not  much 
before  noon,  and  so  did  not  reach  the  outskirts  of 
your  city  until  the  sun  was  getting  low.  I  tried  to 
make  up  my  mind  whether  I  had  better  put  up  there 
or  push  on  a  little  farther ;  for  I  was  in  a  hurry,  and 
the  days  are  long  now,  and  it  would  be  light  for  a 
good  while  yet.  I  was  still  hesitating,  when  lo ! — 
for  who  can  remain  hidden  from  the  friends  who 
love  him  ? — all  my  doubts  were  happily  resolved  by 
your  arrival,  in  company  with  several  other  men  of 
mark,  such  as  that  little  city  has  always  produced 
in  great  abundance.  My  mind  was  tossing  this  way 
and  that,  but  you  and  your  companions,  with  your 
pleasant  varied  talk,  furnished  the  cable  that  bound 
it  fast.  I  planned  to  go,  but  still  stayed  on ;  and 
did  not  realise  that  the  daylight  was  slipping  away 
from  me  until  night  was  actually  at  hand.  So  I 
discovered  once  again  what  I  had  observed  often 
before,  that  there  is  nothing  that  filches  time  away 
from  us,  without  our  perceiving  it,  like  converse 
with  our  friends.  They  are  the  greatest  of  all 
thieves  of  time.  And  yet  we  ought  to  deem  no  time 
less  truly  stolen  from  us,  less  truly  lost  out  of  our 
lives,  than  such  as  is  expended  (next  to  God)  upon 
them. 

1  Fam.,  xxiv.,  2. 


244  Petrarch 

Well,  not  to  review  the  story  at  too  great  length, 
you  remember  that  some  one  made  mention  of 
Cicero,  as  will  very  often  happen  among  men  of 
literary  tastes.  This  name  at  once  brought  our  de- 
sultory conversation  to  an  end.  We  all  turned  our 
thoughts  toward  him.  Nothing  but  Cicero  was 
discussed  after  that.  As  we  sat  and  feasted  to- 
gether we  vied  with  one  another  in  singing  his 
praises.  Still,  there  is  nothing  in  this  world  that 
is  absolutely  perfect ;  never  has  the  man  existed 
in  whom  the  critic,  were  he  ever  so  lenient,  would 
see  nothing  at  all  to  reprehend.  So  it  chanced  that 
while  I  expressed  admiration  for  Cicero,  almost 
without  reservation,  as  a  man  whom  I  loved  and 
honoured  above  all  others,  and  amazement  too  at 
his  golden  eloquence  and  his  heavenly  genius,  I 
found  at  the  same  time  a  little  fault  with  his  fickle- 
ness and  inconsistency,  traits  that  are  revealed 
everywhere  in  his  life  and  works.  At  once  I  saw 
that  all  who  were  present  were  astonished  at  so  un- 
usual an  opinion,  and  one  among  them  especially  so. 
I  refer  to  the  old  man,  your  fellow-citizen,  whose 
name  has  gone  from  me,  although  his  image  is  fresh 
in  my  memory,  and  I  revere  him,  both  for  his  years 
and  for  his  scholarship. 

Well,  the  circumstances  seemed  to  demand  that 
I  fetch  the  manuscript  of  my  correspondence  with 
my  friends,  which  I  had  with  me  in  my  chest. 
It  was  brought  in,  and  added  fuel  to  the  flame. 
For  among  the  letters  that  were  written  to  my 
contemporaries  there  are  a  few,  inserted  with  an 
eye  to  variety  and  for  the  sake  of  a  little  diversion 


The  Father  of  Humanism        245 

in  the  midst  of  my  more  serious  labours,  that  are 
addressed  to  some  of  the  more  illustrious  men  of 
ancient  times.  A  reader  who  was  not  forewarned 
would  be  amazed  at  these,  finding  names  so  old  and 
of  such  renown  mingled  with  those  of  our  own  day. 
Two  of  them  are  to  Cicero  himself ;  one  criticising 
his  character,  the  other  praising  his  genius.  These 
two  you  read,  while  the  others  listened ;  and  then 
the  strife  of  words  grew  warmer.  Some  approved 
of  what  I  had  written,  admitting  that  Cicero  de- 
served my  censure.  But  the  old  man  stood  his 
ground,  more  stubbornly  even  than  before.  He  was 
so  blinded  by  love  of  his  hero  and  by  the  brightness  of 
his  name  that  he  preferred  to  praise  him  even  when 
he  was  in  the  wrong;  to  embrace  faults  and  virtues 
together,  rather  than  make  any  exceptions.  He 
would  not  be  thought  to  condemn  anything  at  all  in 
so  great  a  man.  So  instead  of  answering  our  argu- 
ments he  rang  the  changes  again  and  again  upon  the 
splendour  of  Cicero's  fame,  letting  authority  usurp 
the  place  of  reason.  He  would  stretch  out  his  hand 
and  say  imploringly,  "  Gently,  I  beg  of  you,  gently 
with  my  Cicero."  And  when  we  asked  him  if  he 
found  it  impossible  to  believe  that  Cicero  had  made 
mistakes,  he  would  close  his  eyes  and  turn  his  face 
away  and  exclaim  with  a  groan,  as  if  he  had  been 
smitten,  "Alas !  alas !  Is  my  beloved  Cicero  accused 
of  doing  wrong  ?  "  just  as  if  we  were  speaking  not  of 
a  man  but  of  some  god.  I  asked  him,  accordingly, 
whether  in  his  opinion  Tullius  was  a  god,  or  a  man 
like  others.  "  A  god,"  he  replied;  and  then,  real- 
ising what  he  had  said,  he  added,  "  a  god  of  elo- 


246  Petrarch 

quence. "  "  Oh,  very  well !  "  I  answered  ;"  if  he  is 
a  god,  he  certainly  could  not  have  erred.  However,  I 
never  heard  him  styled  so  before.  And  yet,  if  Cicero 
calls  Plato  his  god,  why  should  not  you  in  turn 
speak  of  Cicero  as  yours  ? — except  that  it  is  not  in 
harmony  with  our  religious  beliefs  for  men  to  fashion 
gods  for  themselves  as  they  may  fancy. "  "I  am  only 
jesting,"  said  he;  "  I  know  that  Tullius  was  a  man, 
but  he  was  a  man  of  godlike  genius."  '  That  is 
better,"  I  responded;  "  for  when  Quintilian  called 
him  heavenly  he  spoke  no  more  than  the  truth. 
But  then,  if  you  admit  that  he  was  a  man,  it  follows 
necessarily  that  he  could  make  mistakes,  and  did 
so."  As  I  spoke  these  words  he  shuddered  and 
turned  away,  as  if  they  were  aimed  not  at  another 
man's  reputation  but  at  his  own  life.  What  could 
I  say,  I  who  am  myself  so  great  an  admirer  of 
Cicero's  genius  ?  I  felt  that  the  old  scholar  was  to 
be  envied  for  his  ardour  and  devotion,  which  had 
something  of  the  Pythagorean  savour.  I  was  re- 
joiced at  finding  such  reverence  for  even  one  great 
man;  such  almost  religious  regard,  so  fervent  that 
to  suspect  any  touch  of  human  weakness  in  its  ob- 
ject seemed  like  sacrilege.  I  was  amazed,  too,  at 
having  discovered  a  person  who  cherished  a  love 
greater  than  mine  for  the  man  whom  I  always  had 
loved  beyond  all  others  ;  a  person  who  in  old  age 
still  held,  deeply  rooted  in  his  heart,  the  opinions 
concerning  him  which  I  remember  to  have  enter- 
tained in  my  boyhood;  and  who,  notwithstanding 
his  advanced  years,  was  incapable  of  arguing  that  if 
Cicero  was  a  man  it  followed  that  in  some  cases,  in 


The  Father  of  Humanism        247 

many  indeed,  he  must  have  erred,  a  conclusion  that 
I  have  been  forced,  by  common  sense  and  by  know- 
ledge of  his  life,  to  accept  at  this  earlier  stage  of  my 
development,  —  although  this  conviction  does  not 
alter  the  fact  that  the  beauty  of  his  work  delights 
me  still,  beyond  that  of  any  other  writer.  Why, 
Tullius  himself,  the  very  man  of  whom  we  are 
speaking,  took  this  view,  for  he  often  bewailed  his 
errors,  bitterly.  If,  in  our  eagerness  to  praise  him, 
we  deny  that  he  thus  understood  himself,  we 
deprive  him  of  a  large  part  of  his  renown  as  a  phi- 
losopher, the  praise,  namely,  that  is  due  to  self- 
knowledge  and  modesty. 

To  return,  however,  to  that  day;  after  a  long 
discussion  we  were  compelled  by  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  to  desist,  and  separated  with  the  question  still 
unsettled.  But  as  we  parted  you  asked  me  to  send 
you  from  my  first  resting-place,  inasmuch  as  the 
shortness  of  the  time  would  not  let  me  attend  to 
it  just  then,  a  copy  of  each  of  these  letters  of  mine, 
in  order  that  you  might  look  into  the  matter  a 
little  more  carefully,  and  be  in  a  position  to  act 
as  a  mediator  between  the  parties,  or,  possibly,  as 
a  champion  of  Cicero's  steadfastness  and  consis- 
tency. I  approve  of  your  intention,  and  send  the 
copies  herewith.  I  do  so,  strange  to  say,  with  a  fear 
that  1  may  be  victorious,  and  a  hope  that  I  may  be 
vanquished.  And  one  thing  more:  I  must  tell  you 
that  if  you  do  prove  the  victor  you  have  a  larger  task 
on  your  hands  than  you  now  imagine.  For  Annaeus 
Seneca,  whom  I  criticise  in  my  very  next  letter  in  a 
similar  way,  insists  that  you  act  as  his  champion  too. 


248  Petrarch 

I  have  dealt  familiarly  with  these  great  geniuses, 
and  perhaps  boldly,  but  lovingly,  but  sorrowfully, 
but  truthfully,  I  think  * ;  with  somewhat  more  of 
truthfulness,  in  fact,  than  I  myself  relish.  There 
are  many  things  in  both  of  them  that  delight  me, 
only  a  few  that  trouble  me.  Of  these  few  I  felt 
constrained  to  write;  perhaps  to-day  I  should  feel 
otherwise.  For,  although  I  have  grouped  these 
letters  together  at  the  end,  it  is  only  because  their 
subject-matter  is  so  unlike  the  others;  they  came 
from  the  anvil  long  ago. 

The  fact  is,  I  still  grieve  over  the  fate  of  these 
great  men ;  but  I  do  not  lament  their  faults  any  the 
less  because  of  that.  Furthermore,  I  beg  you  to 
note  that  I  say  nothing  against  Seneca's  private  life, 
nor  against  Cicero's  attitude  toward  the  state.  Do 
not  confuse  the  two  cases.  It  is  Cicero  alone  whom 
we  are  discussing  now ;  and  I  am  not  forgetting  that 
he  as  consul  was  vigilant  and  patriotic,  and  cured 
the  disease  from  which  the  republic  was  suffering ; 
nor  that  as  a  private  citizen  he  always  loved  his 
country  faithfully.  But  what  of  his  fickleness  in 
friendship ;  and  his  bitter  quarrels  upon  slight  pro- 
vocation,— quarrels  that  brought  ruin  upon  himself 
and  good  to  no  one;  and  his  inability  to  understand 
his  own  position  and  the  condition  of  the  republic, 
so  unlike  his  usual  acumen;  and,  finally,  the*spec- 
tacle  of  a  philosopher,  in  his  old  age,  childishly  fjond 
of  useless  wrangling  ?  These  things  I  cannot  praise. 
And  remember  that  they  are  things  concerning 

1  This  artificial  repetition  of  the  adversative  conjunction  is  a  trick 
of  style  that  Petrarch  is  very  fond  of. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        249 

which  no  unbiassed  judgment  can  be  formed,  by 
you  or  anyone  else,  without  a  careful  reading  of  the 
entire  correspondence  of  Cicero,  which  suggested 
this  controversy.1 

May  1 3th,  en  route. 

Of  the  two  letters  addressed  directly  to 
Cicero  himself,  and  referred  to  in  the  preced- 
ing epistle,  one  has  already  been  given.  The 
other  is,  in  part,  as  follows  : 

To  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero? 

If  my  earlier  letter  gave  you  offence, — for,  as 
you  often  have  remarked,  the  saying  of  your  con- 
temporary in  the  Andria  is  a  faithful  one,  that  com- 
pliance begets  friends,  truth  only  hatred, — you  shall 
listen  now  to  words  that  will  soothe  your  wounded 
feelings  and  prove  that  the  truth  need  not  always 
be  hateful.  For,  if  censure  that  is  true  angers  us, 
true  praise,  on  the  other  hand,  gives  us  delight. 

You  lived  then,  Cicero,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say 
it,  like  a  mere  man,  but  spoke  like  an  orator,  wrote 
like  a  philosopher.  It  was  your  life  that  I  criticised  ; 
not  your  mind,  nor  your  tongue;  for  the  one  fills 
me  with  admiration,  the  other  with  amazement. 
And  even  in  your  life  I  feel  the  lack  of  nothing  but 
stability,  and  the  love  of  quiet  that  should  go  with 
your  philosophic  professions,  and  abstention  from 

1  This  last  sentence,  with  its  schoolmasterly  tone,  is  an  interesting 
revelation  of  Petrarch's  feeling  of  superiority,  in  point  of  scholarship, 
to  all  of  his  associates.  It  was  a  feeling  that  the  facts  fully  justified. 

*  Fan.,  xxiv.,  4. 


250  Petrarch 

civil  war,  when  liberty  had  been  extinguished  and 
the  republic  buried  and  its  dirge  sung. 

See  how  different  my  treatment  of  you  is  from 
yours  of  Epicurus,  in  your  works  at  large,  and 
especially  in  the  De  Finibus.  You  are  continually 
praising  his  life,  but  his  talents  you  ridicule.  I 
ridicule  in  you  nothing  at  all.  Your  life  does 
awaken  my  pity,  as  I  have  said;  but  your  talents 
and  your  eloquence  call  for  nothing  but  congratula- 
tion. O  great  father  of  Roman  eloquence !  not  I 
alone  but  all  who  deck  themselves  with  the  flowers 
of  Latin  speech  render  thanks  unto  you.  It  is  from 
your  well-springs  that  we  draw  the  streams  that 
water  our  meads.  You,  we  freely  acknowledge,  are 
the  leader  who  marshals  us;  yours  are  the  words 
of  encouragement  that  sustain  us;  yours  is  the 
light  that  illumines  the  path  before  us.  In  a  word, 
it  is  under  your  auspices  that  we  have  attained 
to  such  little  skill  in  this  art  of  writing  as  we  may 
possess.  . 

You  have  heard  what  I  think  of  your  life  and 
your  genius.  Are  you  hoping  to  hear  of  your  books 
also ;  what  fate  has  befallen  them,  how  they  are  es- 
teemed by  the  masses  and  among  scholars  ?  They 
still  are  in  existence,  glorious  volumes,  but  we  of  to- 
day are  too  feeble  a  folk  to  read  them,  or  even  to  be 
acquainted  with  their  mere  titles.  Your  fame  extends 
far  and  wide  ;  y^our  name  is  mighty,  and  fills  the  ears 
of  men  ;  and  yet  those  who  really  know  you  are  very 
few,  be  it  because  the  times  are  unfavourable,  or 
because  men's  minds  are  slow  and  dull,  or,  as  I  am 
the  more  inclined  to'  believe,  because  the  love  of 


The  Father  of  Humanism        251 

money  forces  our  thoughts  in  other  directions.  Con- 
sequently right  in  our  own  day,  unless  I  am  much 
mistaken,  some  of  your  books  have  disappeared,  I 
fear  beyond  recovery.  It  is  a  great  grief  to  me,  a 
great  disgrace  to  this  generation,  a  great  wrong  done 
to  posterity.  The  shame  of  failing  to  cultivate  our 
own  talents,  thereby  depriving  the  future  of  the 
fruits  that  they  might  have  yielded,  is  not  enough 
for  us  ;  we  must  waste  and  spoil,  through  our  cruel 
and  insufferable  neglect,  the  fruits  of  your  labours 
too,  and  of  those  of  your  fellows  as  well,  for  the 
fate  that  I  lament  in  the  case  of  your  own  books  has 
befallen  the  works  of  many  another  illustrious  man. 

It  is  of  yours  alone,  though,  that  I  would  speak 
now.  Here  are  the  names  of  those  among  them 
whose  loss  is  most  to  be  deplored :  the  Republic,  the 
Praise  of  Philosophy,  the  treatises  on  the  Care  of 
Property,  on  the  Art  of  War,  on  Consolation,  on 
Glory, — although  in  the  case  of  this  last  my  feeling 
is  rather  one  of  hopeful  uncertainty  than  of  certain 
despair.  And  then  there  are  huge  gaps  in  the 
volumes  that  have  survived.  It  is  as  if  indolence 
and  oblivion  had  been  worsted,  in  a  great  battle,  but 
we  had  to  mourn  noble  leaders  slain,  and  others  lost 
or  maimed.  This  last  indignity  very  many  of  your 
books  have  suffered,  but  more  particularly  the 
Orator,  the  Academics,  and  the  Laws.  They  have 
come  forth  from  the  fray  so  mutilated  and  disfigured 
that  it  would  have  been  better  if  they  had  perished 
outright. 

Now,  in  conclusion,  you  will  wish  me  to  tell  you 
something  about  the  condition  of  Rome  and  the 


252  Petrarch 

Roman  republic :  the  present  appearance  of  the  city 
and  whole  country,  the  degree  of  harmony  that  pre- 
vails, what  classes  of  citizens  possess  political  power, 
by  whose  hands  and  with  what  wisdom  the  reins  of 
empire  are  swayed,  and  whether  the  Danube,  the 
Ganges,  the  Ebro,  the  Nile,  the  Don,  are  our 
boundaries  now,  or  in  very  truth  the  man  has  arisen 
who  '  bounds  our  empire  by  the  ocean-stream,  our 
fame  by  the  stars  of  heaven/  or  '  extends  our  rule 
beyond  Garama  and  Ind,'  as  your  friend  the  Man- 
tuan  has  said.  Of  these  and  other  matters  of  like 
nature  I  doubt  not  you  would  very  gladly  hear. 
Your  filial  piety  tells  me  so,  your  well-known  love 
of  country,  which  you  cherished  even  to  your  own 
destruction.  But  indeed  it  were  better  that  I  re- 
frained. Trust  me,  Cicero,  if  you  were  to  hear  of 
our  condition  to-day  you  would  be  moved  to  tears, 
in  whatever  circle  of  heaven  above,  or  Erebus  below, 
you  may  be  dwelling.  Farewell,  forever. 

Written  in  the  world  of  the  living;  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhone,  in  Transalpine  Gaul;  in  the 
same  year,  but  in  the  month  of  December,  the  I9th 
day. 

Over  against  the  foregoing  should  be  placed 
a  part  at  least  of  the  long  letter  addressed  to 
Homer.  This  will  serve  to  correct  the  some- 
what too  favourable  impression  of  Petrarch's 
critical  insight  that  the  letters  to  Cicero  may 
have  induced,  and  will  reveal  some  of  the 
limitations  of  his  scholarship. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        253 

To  Homer.1 

Long  before  your  letter2  reached  me  I  had  formed 
an  intention  of  writing  to  you,  and  I  should  really 
have  done  it  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  lack  of  a 
common  language.  I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  learned  Greek,3  and  the  Latin  tongue,  which 
you  once  spoke,  by  the  aid  of  our  writers,4  you  seem 
of  late,  through  the  negligence  of  their  successors, 
to  have  quite  forgotten.  From  both  avenues  of 
communication,  consequently,  1^  have  been  de- 
barred, and  so  have  kept  silence.,  But  now  there 
comes  a  man  6  who  restores  you  to  us,  single-handed, 
and  makes  you  a  Latin  again. 

Your  Penelope   cannot  have   waited    longer  nor 

1  Fam . ,  xxiv.  ,12. 

2  Someone  had  sent  Petrarch  an  epistle  that  purported  to  come 
from  the  shade  of  Homer.     It  must  have  been  even  more  interest- 
ing than  this  reply,  in  its  unconscious  revelation  of  mediaeval  limit- 
ations.    Petrarch  took  it  very  seriously.     He  often  forgets  in  this 
answer  that  he  is  not  writing  to  Homer  himself. 

3  In  Petrarch's  day,  as  has  been  hinted  above  (p.  237),  there  was 
no  apparatus  for  the  study  of  Greek.     Oral  instruction,  from  Greek 
or  Byzantine  scholars,  was  the  only  possible  means  of  access  to  the 
great  writers  of   the  past.       Such  instruction  was  very  difficult  to 
secure,  as  Petrarch's  repeated  efforts  and  final  failure  prove.     For 
his  own  statements  concerning  this  subject  see  Fam.,  xviii.,  2. 

4  The  reference  is  of  course  to  the  Latin  translations  of  Homer, 
the  Odyssey  of  Livius  Andronicus  and  the  abridgment  of  the  Iliad 
mentioned  just  below,  p.  254,  note  I. 

5  Leo  Pilatus  (or  Leontius  Pilatus,  as  Boccaccio  writes  the  name), 
a  Calabrian,  who,  at  the  instance  of  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  was 
making  at  Florence  at  about  this  time  a  Latin  prose  version  of  the 
Iliad  and  the  Odyssey.     For  a  good  brief  account  of  what  is  known 
concerning   Pilatus,  with  a  few   specimens  of  his  translation,  see 
Korting,  op.  cit.,  i.,  474  sqq. 


254  Petrarch 

with  more  eager  expectation  for  her  Ulysses  than  I 
did  for  you.  At  last,  though,  my  hope  was  fading 
gradually  away.  Except  for  a  few  of  the  opening 
lines  of  certain  books,  from  which  there  seemed  to 
flash  upon  me  the  face  of  the  friend  whom  I  had 
been  longing  to  behold,  a  momentary  glimpse,  dim 
through  distance,  or,  rather,  the  sight  of  his  stream- 
ing hair,  as  he  vanished  from  my  view, — except  for 
this  no  hint  of  a  Latin  Homer  had  come  to  me,  and 
I  had  no  hope  of  being  able  ever  to  see  you  face  to 
face.  For  as  regards  the  little  book  that  is  circu- 
lated under  your  name,  while  I  cannot  say  whose 
it  is  I  do  feel  sure  that  it  is  yours  only  as  it  has  been 
culled  from  you  and  accredited  to  you,  and  is  not 
your  real  work  at  all.1  This  friend  of  ours,  however, 
if  he  lives,  will  restore  you  to  us  in  your  entirety. 
He  is  now  at  work,  and  we  are  beginning  to  enjoy  not 
only  the  treasures  of  wisdom  that  are  stored  away  in 
your  divine  poems  but  also  the  sweetness  and  charm 
of  your  speech.  One  fragment  has  come  to  my 
hands  already,  Grecian  precious  ointment  in  Latin 
vessels.2  .  .  . 

To   turn    now   to   details,    I    am   very   eager  for 
knowledge,    and    consequently   was   delighted    be- 

1  The  reference  here  is  to  the  metrical  abridgment  of  the  Iliad  by 
Silius   Italicus.     This  contains  1070  lines,  half  of  them  condensed 
translation  of  passages  from  books  I.-V.,  the  remainder  little  more 
than  the  driest  epitome.     Poor  as  it  is,  it  was  widely  accepted  in  the 
middle  ages,  in  some  confused  sort  of  a  way,  as  '  Homer.'      But 
Petrarch  was  able  to  look  below  the  surface  and  see  just  what  it  was. 

2  De  Nolhac  has  shown  (op.  tit.,  pp.  342,  354)  that  Pilatus  probably 
had  made  for  Petrarch  alone,  more  than  a  year  before  this  epistle  was 
written,  a  preliminary  translation  of  the  first  five  books  of  the  Iliad. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        255 

yond  all  measure  and  belief  by  what  you  wrote 
about  your  instructors,  of  whom  I  had  never  before 
heard,  although  now  I  shall  reverence  them  because 
of  the  merits  of  their  great  pupil ;  and  about  the 
origin  of  poetry,  which  you  explain  at  the  great- 
est length ;  and  about  the  earliest  followers  of  the 
Muses,  among  whom,  in  addition  to  the  well-known 
dwellers  upon  Helicon,  you  place  Cadmus,  the  son 
of  Agenor,  and  a  certain  Hercules,  whether  the 
great  Alcides  or  not  I  do  not  fully  understand ; 
and,  finally,  about  the  place  of  your  nativity, 
concerning  which  there  used  to  be  very  vague  and 
misty  views  here  in  my  country,  and  no  great 
clearness,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  among  your  compa- 
triots; about  your  wanderings,  too,  in  search  of 
knowledge,  into  Phoenicia  and  Egypt,  whither, 
several  centuries  after  you,  the  illustrious  philo- 
sophers Pythagoras  and  Plato  also  made  their  way, 
and  the  Athenian  law-giver  who  in  his  late  years 
wooed  the  Pierian  Muses,  wise  old  Solon,  who  while 
he  lived  never  ceased  to  admire  you,  and  when  he 
died  doubtless  became  one  of  your  cherished 
friends;  and,  last  of  all,  about  the  number  of  your 
works,  the  majority  of  which  even  the  Italians, 
your  nearest  neighbours,  have  never  so  much  as 
heard  of.  As  for  the  barbarians,  who  bound  us 
upon  two  sides,  and  from  whom  I  would  that  we 
were  separated  not  by  lofty  Alps  alone  but  by  the 
whole  wide  sea  as  well,  they  scarcely  have  heard — 
I  will  not  say  of  your  books,  but  even  of  your  very 
name.  You  see  how  trivial  a  thing  is  this  wonder- 
ful fame  which  we  mortals  sigh  for  so  windily. 


256  Petrarch 

And  now  what  shall  I  say  about  the  matter  of 
imitation  ?  When  you  found  yourself  soaring  so 
high  on  the  wings  of  genius  you  ought  to  have 
foreseen  that  you  would  always  have  imitators. 
You  should  be  glad  that  your  endowments  are  such 
that  many  men  long  to  be  like  you,  although  not 
many  can  succeed.  Why  not  be  glad,  you  who  are 
sure  of  holding  always  the  first  place,  when  I,  the 
least  of  mortals,  am  more  than  glad,  am  in  fact 
puffed  up  with  pride,  because  I  have  grown  great 
enough  for  others — though  I  scarcely  can  believe 
that  this  is  really  true — to  desire  to  imitate  and  copy 
me  ?  In  my  case  the  pride  and  joy  would  only  in- 
crease if  among  these  imitators  there  should  be 
found  some  few  who  were  capable  of  surpassing  me. 
I  pray — not  your  Apollo,  but  the  true  God  of  Intel- 
lect whom  I  worship,  to  crown  the  efforts  of  all  who 
may  deem  it  worth  their  while  to  follow  after  me, 
and  to  grant  that  they  may  find  it  an  easy  thing  to 
come  up  with  me,  and  outstrip  me  too.  .  .  . 

But  I  am  wandering.  It  was  my  intention  to 
speak  to  you  of  Virgil,  than  whom, as  Flaccus  says, 
this  earth  has  produced  no  soul  more  spotless ;  and 
to  suggest  to  you,  great  master  of  us  both,  certain  ex- 
cuses for  his  conduct.  ...  I  admit  the  truth  of 
everything  that  you  say  concerning  him,  but  it  does 
not  necessarily  follow  that  I  lend  a  sympathetic  ear  to 
the  charges  that  you  base  upon  this  failure  of  his  to 
make  anywhere  any  mention  of  your  name,  laden  and 
bedecked  though  he  is  with  your  spoils, — mention, 
you  remind  me,  such  as  Lucan  made,  remembering 
in  grateful  strains  the  honour  due  to  Smyrna's  bard- 


The  Father  of  Humanism        257 

Far  from  that,  I  am  even  going  to  suggest  to  you 
additional  cause  for  complaint.  Flaccus  also  remem- 
bers you,  in  many  a  passage,  and  always  with  the 
highest  praise.  In  one  place  he  exalts  you  above 
the  very  philosophers ;  in  another  he  assigns  to  you 
the  highest  seat  among  the  poets.  Naso  remem- 
bers you  too,  and  Juvenal,  and  Statius.  But  why 
try  to  mention  all  who  mention  Homer  ?  There  is 
scarcely  one  of  our  writers  but  that  belongs  in  that 
class.  Why  is  it  then,  you  will  say,  that  I  find 
the  one  man  from  whom  I  deserved  most  gratitude 
proving  so  utterly  ungrateful  ?  Before  I  answer  you 
let  me  furnish  you  still  another  reason  for  complaint. 
Observe  that  he  was  not  equally  ungrateful  in  every 
case.  Musaeus  and  Linus  and  Orpheus  are  referred 
to  more  than  once.  So  also,  and  with  even  greater 
humility,  Hesiod  the  Ascraean  and  Theocritus  of 
Syracuse.  And  finally,  a  thing  that  he  never  would 
have  done  if  he  had  had  any  touch  of  jealousy,  he 
takes  pains  to  speak  of  Varus,  and  Gallus,  and  certain 
others  of  his  contemporaries. 

Well,  have  I  aggravated  sufficiently  the  resent- 
ment which  I  proposed  to  assuage,  or  entirely  re- 
move ?  The  natural  conclusion,  certainly,  for  anyone 
to  draw,  if  this  were  all  that  I  had  to  say.  But  it  is 
not ;  we  have  not  considered  yet  the  reasons  for  all 
this,  and  given  them  their  due  weight,  and  that  we 
should  always  do,  especially  when  we  are  sitting  in 
judgment  upon  others. 

Is  it  not  true,  then,  that  he  chose  Theocritus  for  his 
guide  and  model  in  the  Bucolics,  and  Hesiod  in  the 
Georgics,  and,  having  done  so,  took  pains  to  intro- 


258  Petrarch 

duce  the  name  of  each  in  its  appropriate  place  ? 
Yes,  you  will  say;  but  after  choosing  me  for  his 
third  model,  in  his  heroic  poem,  what  was  there  to 
prevent  his  making  some  mention  there,  in  like 
manner,  of  my  name  ?  He  would  have  done  so, 
believe  me,  for  he  was  the  gentlest  and  most  unas- 
suming of  men,  as  is  proved  by  all  that  is  written  of 
him  and  all  that  we  know  of  his  daily  life ;  but  im- 
pious death  forbade.  The  others  he  had  referred 
to  wherever  he  thought  of  it  or  found  it  convenient; 
for  you,  to  whom  he  owed  so  much  more,  he  was 
reserving  a  place  that  had  been  determined  not  by 
mere  chance  but  by  the  most  careful  consideration. 
And  what  place,  think  you  ?  What  but  the  most 
prominent  and  conspicuous  of  all  ?  The  end  of  his 
glorious  work! — it  was  for  that  that  he  was  waiting; 
it  was  there  that  he  was  intending  to  exalt  you  and 
your  name  to  the  stars  in  resounding  verse,  and  to 
hail  you  as  his  leader.  What  better  place  to  praise 
a  leader  than  at  the  journey's  end  ?  You  have  good 
reason,  then,  for  lamenting  his  too  early  death,  and 
so  has  the  whole  Italian  world ;  but  for  reproaching 

your  friend,  none  whatever 

Now,  in  conclusion,  I  must  run  over  the  various 
little  complaints  that  are  scattered  up  and  down 
the  whole  length  of  your  letter.  You  grieve  be- 
cause you  have  been  mangled  so  by  your  imitators. 
But  do  you  not  see  that  it  could  not  possibly  have 
been  otherwise  ?  No  one  could  deal  comprehen- 
sively with  so  great  a  genius.  Then  you  mourn  be- 
cause your  name,  which  was  held  in  great  honour 
by  the  lawyers  and  physicians  of  old,  is  despised  by 


The  Father  of  Humanism        259 

their  successors  of  to-day.  But  you  forget  that 
these  professions  are  filled  now  by  men  of  a  very 
different  stamp  from  those  who  followed  them  in 
former  times.  If  they  were  of  the  same  sort  they 
would  love  and  cherish  the  same  things.  So  put 
away  your  indignation  and  your  grief,  and  be  of 
good  hope ;  for  to  have  gained  the  disfavour  of  the 
evil  and  the  ignorant  is  to  have  given  sure  sign  of 
virtue  and  genius.  .  .  . 

A  word  now  with  reference  to  your  complaint  that 
the  valley  of  Fiesole  and  the  banks  of  the  Arno  can 
furnish  only  three  men  who  know  you  and  love  you. 
You  ought  not  to  wonder  at  this.  It  is  enough; 
indeed,  it  is  a  very  great  deal,  more  than  I  should 
have  expected,  to  discover  three  Pierian  spirits  in  a 
city  so  entirely  given  up  to  gain.  But  even  if  you 
think  otherwise  you  need  not  be  discouraged ;  it  is 
a  large  and  populous  place,  and  if  you  seek  you 
will  find  there  a  fourth.  And  to  these  four  I  could 
once  have  added  a  fifth,  a  man  who  well  deserves  to 
be  honoured  thus,  for  the  laurels  of  Peneus  bind  his 
brow — or  of  Alpheus  rather.  But  alas!  the  great 
Babylon  beyond  the  Alps  has  contrived  to  steal 
him  away  from  us.  To  find  five  such  men  at  one 
time  and  in  one  city,  is  that,  think  you,  a  little 
thing  ?  Search  through  other  cities.  Your  beloved 
Bologna  that  you  sigh  for,1  hospitable  though  she  is 
to  all  who  are  of  studious  mind,  has  yet  but  one 

1  Voigt  argues  from  these  words  that  the  letter  to  which  this  of 
Petrarch's  is  a  reply  came  from  Bologna.  De  Nolhac  thinks  it  more 
probable  that  it  was  written  from  Florence,  by  Boccaccio  and  his 
friends. 


260  Petrarch 

such  person,  though  you  seek  in  every  corner  and 
crevice.  Verona  has  two ;  Solmona  one ;  and  Man- 
tua one,  if  the  heavens  have  not  tempted  him  quite 
away  from  the  things  of  earth,  for  he  has  left  your 
banner  and  enlisted  under  that  of  Ptolemy.  Rome 
herself,  the  capital  of  the  world,  has  been  drained 
of  such  citizens  almost  to  a  man,  strange  though 
it  seems.  Perugia  did  produce  one,  a  man  who 
might  have  made  a  name  for  himself;  but  he  has 
neglected  his  opportunities,  and  turned  his  back 
not  on  Parnassus  only  but  on  our  Apennines  and 
Alps  as  well,  and  now,  in  old  age,  is  leading  a 
vagabond  life,  in  Spain,  toiling  as  a  copyist  to 
earn  his  daily  bread.  And  other  cities  have  given 
birth  to  others,  but  all  of  these  whom  I  have 
known  have  before  now  left  this  mortal  home  and 
migrated  to  that  continuing  city  which  one  day 
shall  receive  us  all.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  while  I  have  been  talking  to  you  just 
as  if  you  were  present ;  but  now  the  strong  illusion 
fades  away,  and  I  realise  how  far  you  are  from  me. 
There  comes  over  me  a  fear  that  you  will  scarcely 
care,  down  in  the  shades,  to  read  the  many  things 
that  I  have  written  here.  Yet  I  remember  that  you 
wrote  freely  to  me. 

And  now  farewell,  forever.  To  Orpheus,  and  Li- 
nus, and  Euripides,  and  all  the  others,  I  beg  you 
to  give  my  kindest  greetings,  when  you  come  again 
to  your  abode. 

Written  in  the  world  above ;  in  the  Midland  be- 
tween the  famous  rivers  Po  and  Ticino  and  Adda 
and  others,  whence  some  say  our  Milan  derives  its 


The  Father  of  Humanism        261 

name ;  on  the  ninth  day  of  October,  in  the  year  of 
this  last  age  of  the  world  the  I36oth. 

With  this,  as  throwing  further  light  upon 
Petrarch's  limitations,  may  be  placed  the  letter 
to  his  brother,  upon  the  nature  of  poetry,  to 
which  reference  was  made  above  in  discussing 
the  question  of  allegory  : 

On  the  Nature  of  Poetry. 
To  his  Brother  Gherardo.1 

I  judge,  from  what  I  know  of  your  religious  fer- 
vour, that  you  will  feel  a  sort  of  repugnance  toward 
the  poem  which  I  enclose  in  this  letter,  deeming  it 
quite  out  of  harmony  with  all  your  professions,  and 
in  direct  opposition  to  your  whole  mode  of  thinking 
and  living.  But  you  must  not  be  too  hasty  in  your 
conclusions.  What  can  be  more  foolish  than  to 
pronounce  an  opinion  upon  a  subject  that  you  have 
not  investigated  ?  The  fact  is,  poetry  is  very  far 
from  being  opposed  to  theology.  Does  that  sur- 
prise you  ?  One  may  almost  say  that  theology 
actually  is  poetry,  poetry  concerning  God.  To  call 
Christ  now  a  lion,  now  a  lamb,  now  a  worm,  what 
pray  is  that  if  not  poetical  ?  And  you  will  find 
thousands  of  such  things  in  the  Scriptures,  so  very 
many  that  I  cannot  attempt  to  enumerate  them. 
What  indeed  are  the  parables  of  our  Saviour,  in  the 
Gospels,  but  words  whose  sound  is  foreign  to  their 

lFam.,  x.,  4. 


262  Petrarch 

sense,  or  allegories,  to  use  the  technical  term  ?  But 
allegory  is  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  all  poetry. 
Of  course,  though,  the  subject  matter  in  the  two 
cases  is  very  different.  That  everyone  will  admit. 
In  the  one  case  it  is  God  and  things  pertaining  to 
him  that  are  treated,  in  the  other  mere  gods  and 
mortal  men. 

Now  we  can  see  how  Aristotle  came  to  say  that 
the  first  theologians  and  the  first  poets  were  one  and 
the  same.  The  very  name  of  poet  is  proof  that  he 
was  right.  Inquiries  have  been  made  into  the  origin 
of  that  word ;  and,  although  the  theories  have  varied 
somewhat,  the  most  reasonable  view  on  the  whole 
is  this :  that  in  early  days,  when  men  were  rude  and 
unformed,  but  full  of  a  burning  desire — which  is 
part  of  our  very  nature — to  know  the  truth,  and  es- 
pecially to  learn  about  God,  they  began  to  feel  sure 
that  there  really  is  some  higher  power  that  controls 
our  destinies,  and  to  deem  it  fitting  that  homage 
should  be  paid  to  this  power,  with  all  manner  of 
reverence  beyond  that  which  is  ever  shown  to  men, 
and  also  with  an  august  ceremonial.  Therefore, 
just  as  they  planned  for  grand  abodes,  which  they 
called  temples,  and  for  consecrated  servants,  to 
whom  they  gave  the  name  of  priests,  and  for  mag- 
nificent statues,  and  vessels  of  gold,  and  marble 
tables,  and  purple  vestments,  they  also  determined, 
in  order  that  this  feeling  of  homage  might  not  re- 
main unexpressed,  to  strive  to  win  the  favour  of  the 
deity  by  lofty  words,  subjecting  the  powers  above 
to  the  softening  influences  of  songs  of  praise,  sacred 
hymns  remote  from  all  the  forms  of  speech  that 


The  Father  of  Humanism        263 

pertain  to  common  usage  and  to  the  affairs  of  state, 
and  embellished  moreover  by  numbers,  which  add 
a  charm  and  drive  tedium  away.  It  behoved  of 
course  that  this  be  done  not  in  every-day  fashion, 
but  in  a  manner  artful  and  carefully  elaborated  and 
a  little  strange.  Now  speech  which  was  thus  height- 
ened was  called  in  Greek  poetices ;  so,  very  naturally, 
those  who  used  it  came  to  be  called  poets. 

Who,  you  will  ask,  is  my  authority  for  this  ?  But 
can  you  not  dispense  with  bondsmen,  my  brother, 
and  have  a  little  faith  in  me  ?  That  you  should 
trust  my  unsupported  word,  when  I  tell  you  things 
that  are  true  and  bear  upon  their  face  the  stamp  of 
truth,  is  nothing  more,  it  seems  to  me,  than  I  have 
a  right  to  ask  of  you.  Still,  if  you  find  yourself 
disposed  to  proceed  more  cautiously,  I  will  give  you 
bondsmen  who  are  perfectly  good,  witnesses  whom 
you  may  trust  with  perfect  safety.  The  first  of 
these  is  Marcus  Varro,  the  greatest  scholar  that 
Rome  ever  produced,  and  the  next  is  Tranquillus,  * 
an  investigator  whose  work  is  characterised  always 
by  the  utmost  caution.  Then  I  can  add  a  third 
name,  which  will  probably  be  better  known  to  you, 
Isidore.  He  too  mentions  these  matters,  in  the  ^ 
eighth  book  of  his  Etymologies,  although  briefly  and 
merely  on  the  authority  of  Tranquillus. 

But  you  will  object,  and  say,  "  I  certainly  can  be- 
lieve the  saint,  if  not  the  other  learned  men ;  and 
yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  sweetness  of  your 
poetry  is  inconsistent  with  the  severity  of  my 
life."  Ah!  but  you  are  mistaken,  my  brother. 
Why,  even  the  Old  Testament  fathers  made  use  of 


264  Petrarch 

poetry,  both  heroic  song  and  other  kinds.  Moses, 
for  example,  and  Job,  and  David,  and  Solomon, 
and  Jeremiah.  Even  the  psalms,  which  you  are 
always  singing,  day  and  night,  are  in  metre,  in  the 
Hebrew ;  so  that  I  should  be  guilty  of  no  inaccuracy 
or  impropriety  if  I  ventured  to  style  their  author 
the  Christian's  poet.  Indeed  the  plain  facts  of  the 
case  inevitably  suggest  some  such  designation.  Let 
me  remind  you,  moreover,  since  you  are  not  in- 
clined to  take  anything  that  I  say  to-day  without 
authority,  that  even  Jerome  took  this  view  of  the 
matter.  Of  course  these  sacred  poems,  these  psalms, 
which  sing  of  the  blessed  man,  Christ, — of  his  birth, 
his  death,  his  descent  into  hell,  his  resurrection,  his 
ascent  into  heaven,  his  return  to  judge  the  earth,— 
never  have  been,  and  never  could  have  been,  trans- 
lated into  another  language  without  some  sacrifice 
of  either  the  metre  or  the  sense.  So,  as  the  choice 
had  to  be  made,  it  has  been  the  sense  that  has  been 
considered.  And  ye"t  some  vestige  of  metrical  law 
still  survives,  and  the  separate  fragments  we  still 
call  verses,  very  properly,  for  verses  they  are. 

So  much  for  the  ancients.  Now  as  regards  Am- 
brose and  Augustine  and  Jerome,  our  guides  through 
the  New  Testament, — to  show  that  they  too  em- 
ployed poetic  forms  and  rhythms  would  be  the 
easiest  of  tasks;  while  in  the  case  of  Prudentius  and 
Prosper  and  Sedulius  and  the  rest  the  mere  names 
are  enough,  for  we  have  not  a  single  word  from 
them  in  prose,  while  their  metrical  productions  are 
numerous  and  well  known.  Do  not  look  askance 
then,  dear  brother,  upon  a  practice  which  you  see 


The  Father  of  Humanism        265 

has  been  approved  by  saintly  men  whom  Christ  has 
loved.  Consider  the  underlying  meaning  alone,  and 
if  that  is  sound  and  true  accept  it  gladly,  no  matter 
what  the  outward  form  may  be.  To  praise  a  feast 
set  forth  on  earthen  vessels  but  despise  it  when  it  is 
served  on  gold  is  too  much  like  madness  or  hypo- 
crisy. .  .  . 

But  enough  of  preface,  and  of  apology  for  form 
and  style.  Let  me  come  to  the  point,  without 
further  explanation.  You  must  know  that  three 
summers  ago,  when  I  was  in  Gaul,  the  heat  drove 
me  to  the  Fountain  of  the  Sorgue,  which  we  once 
fixed  upon,  you  will  remember,  as  the  place  where 
we  would  pass  our  life.  By  the  grace  of  God,  how- 
ever, a  far  more  safe  and  tranquil  abode  was  being 
prepared  for  you ;  while  I  was  to  be  denied  the 
enjoyment  of  even  the  little  tranquillity  that  would 
have  been  possible  there,  since  fortune  was  planning 
to  raise  me  to  a  much  higher  station,  very  little  to 
my  liking. 

Well,  here  I  was,  with  my  mind  divided,  afraid  to 
undertake  a  task  of  any  magnitude  while  I  was  under 
such  a  burden  of  care,  and  yet  quite  unable  to  be 
altogether  idle,  because  I  have  been  nourished  from 
my  infancy  on  activity,  an  activity  which  I  hope 
has  been  praiseworthy,  but  which  I  know  has  been 
incessant.  So  I  chose  a  middle  course,  postponing 
all  work  that  was  of  much  importance  but  doing 
little  odds  and  ends  of  writing,  trifles  that  would 
help  me  pass  away  the  time.  Now  the  very  nature 
of  the  region,  the  forest  recesses  to  which  the 
coming  of  dawn  made  me  long  to  flee  and  forget 


266  Petrarch 

my  cares,  and  from  which  only  the  return  of  night 
could  bring  me  home,  suggested  that  I  sing  a  wood- 
land strain.  Accordingly  I  began  to  compose  a 
pastoral  poem,  in  twelve  eclogues,  a  thing  that  I 
had  long  had  in  mind ;  and  you  would  scarcely  be- 
lieve me  if  I  told  you  in  how  few  days  I  had  it  all 
completed,  under  the  stimulus  of  the  place. 

Now  the  first  of  these  eclogues,  in  accordance 
with  the  intention  that  I  had  all  along  entertained, 
was  about  our  two  selves.  Consequently  it  has  won 
the  distinction  of  being  chosen  to  be  sent  to  you ; 
whether  with  the  result  of  giving  you  pleasure  or  of 
completely  spoiling  all  your  pleasure  I  scarcely  can 
decide.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  In 
either  case  this  kind  of  poetry  is  one  that  cannot  be 
understood  unless  a  key  to  it  is  furnished  by  the 
person  who  constructed  it.  So,  as  I  would  not 
have  you  weary  yourself  to  no  purpose,  I  must  give 
you  a  brief  outline,  first  of  what  I  say,  then  of  what 
I  mean  by  it. 

Two  shepherds  are  introduced,  for  it  is  of  the 
pastoral  style.  Pastoral  names  are  given  them, 
naturally:  Silvius  and  Monicus.  Silvius,  seeing 
Monicus  lying  all  alone  in  a  cave,  happy  and  at  his 
ease,  envies  him  and  speaks  to  him,  expressing 
amazement  at  his  good  fortune,  and  lamenting  his 
own  estate.  Monicus  may  forget  his  flocks  and 
fields,  and  think  of  rest  alone,  while  he  must  make 
his  painful  way  over  the  rough  hills.  He  marvels 
the  more  at  this  great  difference  in  their  lot  from 
the  fact  that,  as  he  expresses  it,  one  and  the  same 
mother  bore  them  both, — so  that  we  may  under- 


The  Father  of  Humanism        267 

stand  that  they  are  brothers.  Monicus,  in  response, 
throws  all  the  blame  for  this  hard  life  on  Silvius 
himself,  saying  that  he  is  under  no  constraint  what- 
ever, but  is  wandering  of  his  own  free  will  through 
the  trackless  forests  and  over  the  mountain  sum- 
mits. Silvius  replies  that  there  is  a  reason  for  these 
wanderings ;  the  reason  is  love,  nothing  less  than 
love  of  the  Muse.  To  make  this  clear  he  begins  a 
rather  long  story  of  two  shepherds,  who  sing  very 
sweetly.  He  tells  how  he  heard  one  of  them  in  his 
boyhood,  and  afterwards  the  other,  and  was  so  cap- 
tivated by  them  that  he  began  to  neglect  everything 
else.  He  has  been  following  them  eagerly  through 
the  mountains,  and  while  doing  so  has  learned  to 
sing,  with  a  skill  that  others  have  praised,  although 
he  himself  is  not  yet  satisfied  with  it;  and  he  in- 
tends to  struggle  on  toward  the  summit,  and  either 
reach  it  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

Monicus  now  begins  to  urge  Silvius  to  come  into 
the  cave,  for  he  will  hear  there  even  sweeter  singing. 
Presently,  though,  he  breaks  off,  suddenly,  as  if  he 
saw  signs  of  agitation  in  the  other's  face.  Silvius, 
however,  offers  some  excuse,  and  Monicus  continues. 
When  he  has  finished,  Silvius  asks  who  this  shepherd 
is  that  sings  so  sweetly ;  never  before  has  he  heard 
him  mentioned.  Thereupon  Monicus,  in  the  round- 
about way  that  would  be  natural  in  an  artless  shep- 
herd, instead  of  giving  his  name  describes  the  land 
of  his  birth,  making  mention,  after  the  fashion  of 
rustics,  who  often  wander  in  telling  a  story,  of  two 
rivers  that  spring  from  one  source.  Then  immedi- 
ately, as  if  he  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  he 


268  Petrarch 

turns  his  words  round,  and  where  he  had  begun  to 
speak  of  two  rivers  he  goes  on  to  tell  of  one,  which 
flows  from  two  sources.  Both  of  these  are  in  Asia. 
Silvius  declares  that  he  knows  this  river,  citing  in 
confirmation  the  fact  that  a  certain  youth  who  goes 
clad  in  hairy  raiment  bathes  Apollo  in  it.  In  that 
region,  continues  Monicus,  a  singer  has  arisen. 
Silvius,  upon  hearing  these  words,  remembers  that 
he  has  heard  of  this  man,  and  proceeds  to  speak 
slightingly  of  his  voice  and  mode  of  singing,  exalt- 
ing his  own  by  comparison.  But  Monicus  objects, 
and  heaps  upon  the  far-away  singer  well-deserved 
praise.  Thereupon  Silvius  after  a  time  pretends  to 
acquiesce,  and  says  that  later  he  will  return  and  test 
the  sweetness  of  these  songs ;  now  he  must  hurry 
away.  Monicus,  wondering  at  this,  begs  to  know 
the  reason  of  his  haste,  and  learns  that  Silvius  is  in- 
tent upon  a  song  of  his  own  which  he  has  begun  to 
compose,  concerning  a  certain  famous  youth  whose 
deeds  he  is  briefly  reviewing,  and  that  he  conse- 
quently has  no  leisure  now  for  other  things.  Mon- 
icus accordingly  brings  the  conversation  to  an  end. 
He  bids  Silvius  good-bye,  concluding  with  an  earnest 
exhortation  to  weigh  well  the  dangers  and  chances 
of  such  delay.  And  there  you  have  the  sum  and 
substance  of  the  narrative. 

Now  as  to  its  meaning.  The  shepherds  who  con- 
verse are  ourselves.  I  am  Silvius,  you  are  Monicus. 
These  names  are  chosen  for  the  following  reasons : 
the  former,  partly  because  the  scene  of  the  eclogue 
is  of  a  sylvan  character,  partly  because  I  always 
have  felt,  from  my  earliest  childhood,  a  hatred  of 


The  Father  of  Humanism        269 

cities,  implanted  in  me  by  nature,  and  a  love  of 
sylvan  life,  which  has  led  many  of  our  friends  to 
style  me  Sylvanus  much  more  frequently  than 
Francesco.  Then  the  other  name  comes  from  the 
fact  that  there  was  one  of  the  Cyclops  who  was 
called  Monicus,  that  is  to  say,  one-eyed,  and  there 
seemed  a  certain  fitness  in  applying  the  name  to 
you,  since  of  the  two  eyes  which  we  mortals  all  use, 
one  to  behold  heavenly  things  and  the  other  those 
of  the  earth,  you  have  cast  away  that  which  looks 
earthward  and  are  content  to  employ  the  nobler  one 
alone. 

The  cave,  where  Monicus  dwells  in  solitude,  is 
Montrieux,  where  you  are  living  your  life  in  the 
midst  of  grottoes  and  woods.  Or  it  may  be  taken 
for  the  very  cave  of  Mary  Magdalene,  close  by  your 
monastery,  the  place  where  she  passed  her  period 
of  penitence,  and  where  God  lent  the  props  of  his 
grace  to  your  vacillating  heart  and  made  you  stead- 
fast in  the  holy  purpose  which  you  had  so  often 
discussed  with  me. 

For  flocks  and  fields,  which  you  are  said  to  care 
for  no  longer,  understand  your  fellow-men  and  their 
haunts,  which  you  abandoned  when  you  fled  away 
into  solitude.  The  statement  that  we  had  one  and 
the  same  mother,  and  father  too  for  that  matter, 
is  not  allegory  but  naked  truth.  The  word  sepul- 
chre 1  is  to  be  taken  as  referring  to  our  final  abode. 
The  meaning  is  that  heaven  awaits  you,  but  Tartarus 
me,  unless  divine  mercy  comes  to  my  rescue.  Or 

1  The  fifth  line  of  the  eclogue  reads  : 

Una  fuit  genetrix,  at  spes  non  una  sepulchri. 


270  Petrarch 

the  sentence  can  be  taken  literally,  just  as  it  reads, 
for  you  have  now  a  sure  abode,  and  consequently  a 
fairly  sure  hope  of  sepulture,  while  I  am  still  wan- 
dering about  at  random,  and  everything  in  my 
future  is  quite  unsure. 

The  inaccessible  peak,  which  Monicus  upbraids 
Silvius  for  struggling  toward,  panting  and  ex- 
hausted though  he  is,  is  the  height  of  fame,  the 
rarer  sort  of  fame,  which  but  few  succeed  in  at- 
taining to.  The  deserts  where  Silvius  is  said  to 
wander  are  scholarly  pursuits.  These  to-day  are 
desert  places  indeed,  being  in  some  cases  forsaken 
outright,  through  love  of  money,  in  others  de- 
spaired of  and  neglected,  in  consequence  of  intel- 
lectual sluggishness.  The  mossy  rocks  are  the  rich 
and  great,  the  moss  being  their  inherited  wealth, 
which  has  slowly  gathered  about  them.  Murmuring 
fountains  can  be  used  of  men  of  letters  and  of  those 
who  have  the  gift  of  eloquence,  inasmuch  as  little 
streams  of  intellectual  influence  flow  from  the  well- 
springs  of  genius  that  are  within  them,  with  a  sound, 
so  to  speak,  that  charms  and  delights  us.  As  for 
Silvius'  swearing  by  Pales,  that  is  a  shepherd  oath, 
for  Pales  is  the  shepherds'  goddess.  We  may  under- 
stand there  Mary,  who  is  not  a  goddess,  to  be  sure, 
but  yet  is  the  mother  of  God.  Parthenias  is  Virgil 
himself.  It  is  not  a  name  of  my  devising.  We 
read  in  his  biography  that  he  well  deserved  to  be 
styled  Parthenias,  or  the  virgin ;  so  his  whole  life 
showed.  That  the  reader  may  be  sure  to  under- 
stand this  reference  the  place  is  added ;  the  region, 
as  I  express  it,  where  Benacus,  a  lake  of  Cisalpine 


The  Father  of  Humanism        271 

Gaul,  produces  a  son  that  closely  resembles  himself. 
This  son  is  the  Mincius,  a  river  that  we  associate 
with  Mantua,  which  is  Virgil's  native  town. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  shepherd  of  noble  blood 
who  has  been  brought  here  from  another  land  signi- 
fies Homer.  In  that  passage  almost  every  word  has 
a  meaning.  Even  the  inde,  which  is  put  for  deinde, 
is  used  not  without  a  certain  mysteriousness,  seeing 
that  I  came  in  contact  with  Virgil  when  I  was  a 
boy,  but  with  Homer  afterwards,  when  I  was  some- 
what advanced  in  years.1  .  .  .  The  epithet 
noble  is  of  course  Homer's  by  right,  for  what  is 
more  truly  noble  than  his  language  or  mind  ?  Again, 
I  know  not  from  what  valley  he  has  come  was  added 
because  there  are  varying  opinions  as  to  the  place 
of  his  birth,  no  one  of  which  have  I  accepted  in  that 
place  in  the  eclogue.  Finally,  that  Virgil  drank  at 
the  Homeric  spring  is  a  fact  which  is  known  to 
everyone  who  has  to  do  with  poetry.  The  mistress 
of  whom  they  both  are  said  to  be  worthy  is  Fame, 
for  whose  sakes  they  are  poets.  Except  for  their 
mistresses  lovers  would  not  sing.  The  bristling 
forest  and  the  mountains  that  rise  into  the  air,  at 
which  Silvius  is  amazed  because  they  do  not  follow 
after  these  sweet  singers,  are  the  uncultivated  multi- 
tude and  the  persons  who  occupy  high  stations. 
The  descent  from  the  mountain-tops  to  the  bottom  of 

1  The  reference  here  seems  to  be  to  lines  13  sqq.  (Basle  edition  of 
the  Opera,  1581.)  Possibly  inde  stood  originally  at  the  beginning  of 
line  20,  for  ecce.  There  is  much  evidence,  throughout  the  letter,  to 
the  effect  that  Petrarch  either  had  before  him  a  slightly  different  text 
from  that  known  to  us  or  merely  reviewed  the  eclogue  hastily  and 
then  trusted  to  his  memory  or  impressions  while  writing. 


272  Petrarch 

the  valleys,  and  the  ascent  from  the  valleys  into  the 
mountains  again,  which  Silvius  refers  to  in  speaking 
of  himself,  are  the  transition  from  the  heights  of 
theory  to  the  low  and  level  ground  of  practice,  and, 
conversely,  the  movement  in  the  opposite  direction, 
when  our  attitude  changes.  The  fountain  which 
praises  the  singer  is  the  chorus  of  scholars.  The 
dry  and  barren  crags  are  the  ignorant  and  illiterate, 
who,  like  the  rocks  where  echo  dwells,  possess 
mere  voice  and  power  of  agreement,  without  any 
power  of  discrimination.  The  nymphs,  the  god- 
desses of  the  fountains,  are  the  divine  minds  of 
scholars.  The  threshold  over  which  Monicus  invites 
Silvius  to  pass  is  that  of  the  Carthusian  order,  into 
which  assuredly  no  one  has  ever  been  lured  by  de- 
ception, or  against  his  will,  as  many  persons  have 
been  into  other  religious  bodies.  The  shepherd 
whose  singing  Monicus  prefers  to  Homer  and  Virgil 
is  no  other  than  David.  The  mention  of  singing  to 
the  psaltery  is  peculiarly  appropriate  in  his  case,  be- 
cause of  the  psalms,  which  are  his  work.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night,  on  account  of  the  singing  of  the 
psalms  in  your  churches  at  early  dawn.  The  two 
rivers  from  a  single  source,  as  Monicus  puts  it  first 
by  mistake,  are  the  Tigris  and  the  Euphrates,  well- 
known  streams  of  Armenia.  Then  the  single  river 
from  a  double  source  is  the  Jordan,  in  Judaea.  For 
this  fact  we  have  many  authorities,  among  them 
Jerome,  who  was  a  diligent  student  of  those  regions 
and  lived  there  for  a  long  time.  The  names  of  the 
two  sources  are  Jor  and  Dan.  By  their  union  both 
the  stream  and  its  name  are  formed.  The  Jordan 


The  Father  of  Humanism        273 

empties,  it  is  said,  into  the  Sea  of  Sodom,  where 
we  are  told  that  the  fields  are  strewn  with  ashes 
from  the  burning  of  the  cities.  In  this  river  Christ, 
we  learn,  was  baptised  by  John.  So  the  hairy  youth 
is  John  the  Baptist,  who  was  but  a  youth,  virgin, 
pure,  innocent,  clad  in  hairy  raiment,  unkempt, 
wearing  the  skin  of  a  goat,  with  locks  uncombed, 
with  face  blackened  by  the  suns.  Then  by  Apollo, 
whom  I  describe  as  son  of  Jupiter  and  god  of  intel- 
lect, I  mean  Christ,  who  is  the  son  of  God,  and  very 
God  himself,  and  moreover,  as  I  suggest,  our  god 
of  intellect  and  wisdom.  For,  as  all  theologians 
know,  among  the  attributes  of  the  persons  that  con- 
stitute the  Holy  Trinity,  one  and  indivisible,  wisdom 
belongs  to  the  Son ;  he  is  the  wisdom  of  the  Father. 

Again,  the  hoarse  voice  and  never-ceasing  tears  and 
oft-repeated  name  of  Jerusalem  are  intended  as  a 
reference  to  David,  because  of  his  style,  which  at 
first  seems  rough  and  full  of  lamentation,  and  fur- 
thermore because  there  really  is  frequent  mention 
of  that  city  in  the  psalms,  sometimes  historical, 
sometimes  allegorical.  Now  there  follows  a  brief 
enumeration  of  the  subjects  which  the  poets  whom 
Silvius  is  striving  to  exalt  are  wont  to  sing.  To 
explain  all  this  would  take  a  long  time.  Besides 
it  is  sufficiently  clear  already  to  those  who  are  pro- 
ficient in  such  matters.  And  then  Monicus  replies, 
excusing  this  harshness  of  David,  and  running  with 
like  brevity  over  the  list  of  subjects  which  he  has 
treated. 

The  youth  about  whose  deeds  Silvius  has  begun 
to  weave  his  song  is  Scipio  Africanus,  who  laid 

18 


274  Petrarch 

Polyphemus  low  upon  the  African  shore.  The 
reference  there  is  to  Hannibal,  the  Carthaginian 
leader.  Hannibal  and  Polyphemus  were  both  one- 
eyed,  after  Hannibal's  loss  of  an  eye  in  Italy.  The 
Libyan  lions,  in  which  we  know  that  Africa  abounds, 
are  the  other  Carthaginian  leaders,  who  were  hurled 
from  power  by  the  same  conqueror.  The  sacrifices 
that  were  consumed  are  the  ships  which  he  burned, 
the  ships  upon  which  all  the  hopes  of  the  Carthagin- 
ians had  hung.  He  destroyed  five  hundred  of  them 
before  their  very  eyes,  so  Roman  history  tells  us. 
The  designation  of  starry  youth  is  partly  because  of 
the  heroic  valour  which  he  possessed  above  all  other 
men,  and  which  Virgil  characterises  as  '  burning,' 
Lucan  as  '  fiery  ' ;  and  partly  because  the  Romans 
of  his  day  were  led  by  their  admiration  of  him  to 
credit  him  with  divine  origin.  The  Italians  are  said 
to  praise  him  from  the  opposite  shore  because  of  the 
fact  that  the  shore  of  Italy  really  was  opposed  to 
that  of  Africa,  not  alone  in  temper  and  feeling  but 
in  situation  too.  Rome  itself  is  directly  across  from 
Carthage. 

However,  although  this  youth  is  praised  so  widely, 
nobody  has  sung  of  him ;  by  which  I  meant  to  sug- 
gest that  although  all  history  is  full  of  his  deeds  and 
his  renown,  and  Ennius  has  written  a  great  deal 
about  him,  in  his  rude  and  unpolished  style,  as 
Valerius  calls  it,  there  still  is  no  carefully  finished 
metrical  treatment  of  his  achievements  as  yet.  So 
I  decided  long  ago  to  sing  of  him  myself,  as  best  I 
could.  My  poem  of  Africa  is  about  him.  I  began 
it  in  my  youth,  with  a  high  heart.  God  grant  that 


The  Father  of  Humanism        275 

I  may  be  permitted  in  my  old  age  to  bring  it  to  the 
happy  conclusion  which  I  then  dreamed  of.  The 
danger  which  always  inheres  in  such  postponement 
of  a  well-considered  plan,  and  the  mutability  and 
uncertainty  of  this  life  of  ours,  Monicus  bids  us 
ponder  upon,  in  his  concluding  remarks,  which 
scarcely  call  for  further  explanation.  And  you  will 
also  understand  the  few  sentences  at  the  close,  if 
you  will  reflect  a  little.  Farewell. 

Written  at  Padua,  on  the  second  day  of  Decem- 
ber, toward  evening. 

This  next  letter  gives  one  some  notion  of 
the  difficulties  of  a  scholar's  life  in  Petrarch's 
day  : 

On  the  Scarcity  of  Copyists. 
To  Lapo  da  Castiglionchio* 

Your  Cicero  has  been  in  my  possession  four  years 
and  more.  There  is  a  good  reason,  though,  for  so 
long  a  delay ;  namely,  the  great  scarcity  of  copyists 
who  understand  such  work.  It  is  a  state  of  affairs 
that  has  resulted  in  an  incredible  loss  to  scholarship. 
Books  that  by  their  nature  are  a  little  hard  to  under- 
stand are  no  longer  multiplied,  and  have  ceased  to 
be  generally  intelligible,  and  so  have  sunk  into  utter 
neglect,  and  in  the  end  have  perished.  This  age  of 
ours  consequently  has  let  fall,  bit  by  bit,  some  of  the 
richest  and  sweetest  fruits  that  the  tree  of  know- 
1  Fam.,  xviii.,  12. 


276  Petrarch 

ledge  has  yielded ;  has  thrown  away  the  results  of 
the  vigils  and  labours  of  the  most  illustrious  men 
of  genius,  things  of  more  value,  I  am  almost 
tempted  to  say,  than  anything  else  in  the  whole 
world. 

But  I  must  return  to  your  Cicero.  I  could  not 
do  without  it,  and  the  incompetence  of  the  copyists 
would  not  let  me  possess  it.  What  was  left  for  me 
but  to  rely  upon  my  own  resources,  and  press  these 
weary  fingers  and  this  worn  and  ragged  pen  into 
the  service  ?  The  plan  that  I  followed  was  this.  I 
want  you  to  know  it,  in  case  you  should  ever  have 
to  grapple  with  a  similar  task.  Not  a  single  word 
did  I  read  except  as  I  wrote.  But  how  is  that,  I 
hear  someone  say ;  did  you  write  without  knowing 
what  it  was  that  you  were  writing  ?  Ah !  but  from 
the  very  first  it  was  enough  for  me  to  know  that  it 
was  a  work  of  Tullius,  and  an  extremely  rare  one 
too.  And  then  as  soon  as  I  was  fairly  started  I 
found  at  every  step  so  much  sweetness  and  charm, 
and  felt  so  strong  a  desire  to  advance,  that  the  only 
difficulty  which  I  experienced  in  reading  and  writing 
at  the  same  time  came  from  the  fact  that  my  pen 
could  not  cover  the  ground  so  rapidly  as  I  wanted 
it  to,  whereas  my  expectation  had  been  rather  that 
it  would  outstrip  my  eyes,  and  that  my  ardour  for 
writing  would  be  chilled  by  the  slowness  of  my 
reading.  So  the  pen  held  back  the  eye,  and  the 
eye  drove  on  the  pen,  and  I  covered  page  after 
page,  delighting  in  my  task,  and  committing  many 
and  many  a  passage  to  memory  as  I  wrote.  For 
just  in  proportion  as  the  writing  is  slower  than  the 


The  Father  of  Humanism        277 

reading  does  the  passage  make  a  deep  impression 
and  cling  to  the  mind. 

And  yet  I  must  confess  that  I  did  finally  reach  a 
point  in  my  copying  where  I  was  overcome  by 
weariness ;  not  mental,  for  how  unlikely  that  would 
be  where  Cicero  was  concerned,  but  the  sort  of  fa- 
tigue that  springs  from  excessive  manual  labour. 
I  began  to  feel  doubtful  about  this  plan  that  I  was 
following,  and  to  regret  having  undertaken  a  task 
for  which  I  had  not  been  trained ;  when  suddenly  I 
came  across  a  place  where  Cicero  tells  how  he  him- 
self copied  the  orations  of — someone  or  other;  just 
who  it  was  I  do  not  know,  but  certainly  no  Tullius, 
for  there  is  but  one  such  man,  one  such  voice,  one 
such  mind.  These  are  his  words:  "  You  say  that 
you  have  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  orations 
of  Cassius  in  your  idle  moments.  But  I,"  he  jest- 
ingly adds,  with  his  customary  disregard  of  his 
adversary's  feelings,  "  have  made  a  practice  of 
copying  them,  so  that  I  might  have  no  idle  mo- 
ments." As  I  read  this  passage  I  grew  hot  with 
shame,  like  a  modest  young  soldier  who  hears 
the  voice  of  his  beloved  leader  rebuking  him.  I 
said  to  myself,  "  So  Cicero  copied  orations  that 
another  wrote,  and  you  are  not  ready  to  copy 
his  ?  What  ardour!  what  scholarly  devotion  !  what 
reverence  for  a  man  of  godlike  genius!"  These 
thoughts  were  a  spur  to  me,  and  I  pushed  on,  with 
all  my  doubts  dispelled.  If  ever  from  my  darkness 
there  shall  come  a  single  ray  that  can  enhance  the 
splendour  of  the  reputation  which  his  heavenly  elo- 
quence has  won  for  him,  it  will  proceed  in  no  slight 


278  Petrarch 

measure  from  the  fact  that  I  was  so  captivated  by 
his  ineffable  sweetness  that  I  did  a  thing  in  itself 
most  irksome  with  such  delight  and  eagerness  that 
I  scarcely  knew  I  was  doing  it  at  all. 

So  then  at  last  your  Cicero  has  the  happiness  of 
returning  to  you,  bearing  you  my  thanks.  And  yet 
he  also  stays,  very  willingly,  with  me;  a  dear  friend, 
to  whom  I  give  the  credit  of  being  almost  the  only 
man  of  letters  for  whose  sake  I  would  go  to  the 
length  of  spending  my  time,  when  the  difficulties  of 
life  are  pressing  on  me  so  sharply  and  inexorably 
and  the  cares  pertaining  to  my  literary  labours  make 
the  longest  life  seem  far  too  short,  in  transcribing 
compositions  not  my  own.  I  may  have  done  such 
things  in  former  days,  when  I  thought  myself  rich 
in  time,  and  had  not  learned  how  stealthily  it  slips 
away :  but  I  now  know  that  this  is  of  all  our  riches 
the  most  uncertain  and  fleeting ;  the  years  are  closing 
in  upon  me  now,  and  there  is  no  longer  any  room 
for  deviation  from  the  beaten  path.  I  am  forced  to 
practice  strict  economy ;  I  only  hope  that  I  have  not 
begun  too  late.  But  Cicero !  he  assuredly  is  worthy 
of  a  part  of  even  the  little  that  I  still  have  left. 
Farewell. 

The  two  letters  that  follow,  and  that  con- 
clude this  chapter,  are  given  as  indicative  of 
the  various  ways  in  which  Petrarch  brought 
his  enthusiasm  for  the  classics  to  bear  upon 
his  contemporaries.  It  was  partly  through 
such  conscious  effort,  and  partly  through  the 


The  Father  of  Humanism        279 

general  spirit  and  tone  of  all  his  letters,  and 
of  his  other  writings  too,  that  he  affected  the 
thought  of  his  time. 

Ignorance  and  Presumption  Rebuked. 
To  Giovanni  Andrea  di  Bologna* 

I  find  it  hard  to  tell  you  how  much  my  ears, 
fatigued  by  the  clamour  of  the  multitude,  have  been 
refreshed  by  your  letter,  which  I  have  read  and  re- 
read several  times  over.  You  thought  it  verbose, 
as  I  learned  at  the  end ;  but  I  found  nothing  to 
criticise  in  it  except  its  brevity.  Your  threat  at 
the  close,  that  in  the  future  you  will  be  more  con- 
cise, I  did  not  like.  I  should  prefer  to  have  you 
more  detailed.  But  that  shall  be  as  you  please; 
you  are  my  master;  it  is  not  for  you  to  think  of 
my  preferences,  but  for  me  to  try  to  adapt  myself 
to  yours. 

This,  however,  does  not  necessarily  mean  that 
the  game  is  to  be  entirely  in  your  hands.  Things 
often  turn  out,  as  you  very  well  know,  quite  differ- 
ently from  what  we  expect.  It  is  possible  that  you 

1  Fam.,  iv.,  15.  Giovanni  Andrea (f  1348), whose  lectures  Petrarch 
had  attended  when  at  the  University  of  Bologna,  was  renowned  as  an 
expert  in  the  canon  law;  he  was  called  "the  Archdoctor  of  the 
Decretum,"  and  held  his  chair  in  the  University  for  no  less  than 
forty-five  years.  His  extant  writings  do  not  exhibit  the  ignorance 
which  Petrarch  here  exposes.  He  was  perhaps,  as  Fracassetti  sug- 
gests, un  poco  piu  cauto  e  considerate  in  his  books  than  in  his  lectures 
to  his  students  and  his  letters  to  his  friends.  Cf.  Let.  delle  Cose 
Fam.,  i.,  568  sqq. 


280  Petrarch 

may  once  in  a  while  hear  something  from  me  that 
would  force  even  the  most  devoted  lover  of  silence 
to  speak  out.  Do  you  want  me  to  show  you,  here  and 
now,  that  I  can  live  up  to  that  threat  ?  Very  well ; 
I  will  do  it.  But  first  of  all  let  me  protest  that  I 
entertain  the  same  opinion  concerning  you  that 
Macrobius  does  of  Aristotle ;  begotten  perhaps  by 
my  love  for  you,  perhaps  by  the  truth, — I  do  not  at- 
tempt to  decide.  I  consider  you  scarcely  capable 
of  ignorance,  upon  any  subject  whatever.  If  any- 
thing does  escape  you  that  seems  contrary  to  fact,  I 
conclude  either  that  you  have  spoken  a  little  hastily, 
or,  as  Macrobius  says,  that  you  were  indulging  in  a 
playful  jest.  I  am  not  thinking  now  of  what  you 
wrote  concerning  Jerome,  that  you  place  him  above 
all  the  other  fathers  of  the  church.  Your  opinion 
upon  that  subject  is  of  long  standing  and  widely 
known,  and  not  at  all  new  to  me.  Although  it 
really  seems  to  me  idle  to  contend  thus  from  the 
comparative  point  of  view  about  geniuses  who  are 
all  superlative,  still,  on  the  other  hand,  you  cannot 
be  mistaken  in  what  you  say.  Whatever  wins  your 
approval  will  be  greatest  and  best.  And  yet  I  re- 
member that  I  used  to  debate  this  matter  a  great 
deal  with  your  friend  of  glorious  memory,  Giacomo, 
Bishop  of  Lombez,  and  that,  while  he  followed  in 
your  footsteps  and  always  and  invariably  preferred 
Jerome,  I  used  to  give  the  palm  among  all  our 
Catholic  writers  to  Augustine.  And — well,  I  be- 
lieve upon  reflection  that  I  will  dismiss  my  fears  of 
offending  either  the  truth  or  your  susceptibilities, 
my  father,  and  say  precisely  what  I  think.  There 


The  Father  of  Humanism        281 

are  many  bright  stars,  of  varying  magnitude ;  one  we 
may  call  Jupiter,  another  Arcturus,  another  Lucifer, 
but  the  great  Sun  of  the  Church  is  surely  Augustine. 

This,  however,  as  I  have  implied,  is  a  matter  on 
which  I  am  not  disposed  to  lay  much  stress.  Free- 
dom of  choice  can  harm  no  one ;  freedom  of  judg- 
ment must  be  respected.  But  the  statement  that 
follows,  that  among  ethical  writers  you  place  Vale- 
rius highest,  does  amaze  me;  that  is,  if  you  were 
speaking  seriously  and  will  abide  by  what  you  say, 
and  not  jestingly,  just  for  the  sake  of  trying  me.  /> 
For  if  Valerius  is  first,  where  pray  does  Plato  stand  ?  V 
and  Aristotle  ?  and  Cicero  ?  and  Annaeus  Seneca, 
whom  good  judges  have  ranked  as  a  moralist  above 
them  all  ?  Perhaps  Plato  and  Tullius  will  have  to 
be  dropped  from  my  list,  however,  on  grounds  that 
you  have  stated  elsewhere  in  your  letter.  For,  to 
my  great  astonishment — I  really  cannot  conceive 
what  you  were  thinking  of — you  declare  that  they 
are  poets,  and  ought  to  be  admitted  to  the  poetic 
choir!  If  your  saying  so  should  make  it  so,  you 
would  accomplish  more  than  you  imagine.  Apollo 
would  smile  upon  you  and  the  Muses  applaud,  when 
they  found  you  introducing  your  distinguished  new 
denizens  to  the  hills  and  groves  of  Parnassus.1 

What  in  the  world  induced  you  to  think  or  say 

1  Petrarch  not  infrequently  said  sharp  things,  and  said  them  well, 
as  here.  He  is  witty,  too,  at  times.  He  often  indulges,  also,  in  a 
quiet  jest  or  a  bit  of  banter.  He  habitually  takes  the  mellow  toler- 
ant view  of  harmless  follies  and  foibles.  But  humour,  pure  and 
simple,  of  the  highest  type,  the  humour  that  is  a  deep  and  essential 
part  of  a  man's  nature,  and  that  consequently  is  all-embracing  and 


282  Petrarch 

such  a  thing,  when  it  is  so  plain  that  Tullius  in  his 
early  works  is  the  greatest  of  orators,  and  in  his 
later  an  eminent  philosopher  ?  Besides,  while  we 
feel  everywhere  that  Virgil,  for  instance,  is  a  poet, 
Tullius  is  nowhere  so.  What  we  read  in  the  De- 
clamations is  certainly  true,  that  Virgil's  felicity 
deserted  him  when  he  wrote  in  prose,  and  Cicero's 
eloquence  when  he  wrote  in  verse.  And  then  what 
am  I  to  say  of  Plato,  who  by  the  consensus  of  all 
the  greatest  judges  is  not  a  poet  at  all,  but  the  prince 
of  philosophers  ?  Turn  to  Cicero,  to  Augustine, 
to  other  writers  who  speak  with  authority,  as 
many  of  them  as  you  please,  and  you  will  find  that 
wherever  in  their  books  they  have  exalted  Aristotle 
above  the  rest  of  the  philosophers  they  have  always 
taken  pains  to  declare  that  PJato  is  the  one  excep- 
tion. What  it  is  that  makes  Plato  a  poet  I  cannot 
imagine,  unless  it  be  a  remark  of  Panaetius,  quoted 
by  Tullius,  where  he  is  denominated  the  Homer  of 
philosophy.  This  means  nothing  more  than  chief 
of  philosophers;  as  preeminent  among  them  as 
Homer  among  the  poets.  If  we  do  not  explain  it 
so,  what  are  we  to  say  of  Tullius  himself,  when  in 
a  certain  passage  in  the  letters  to  Atticus  he  calls 
Plato  his  God  ?  They  are  both  trying  in  every 
possible  way  to  express  their  sense  of  the  godlike 
nature  of  Plato's  genius ;  hence  the  name  of  Homer, 
and,  more  explicit  still,  that  of  God. 

ever-present,  he  lacks.  To  this  lack  may  be  ascribed,  in  his  life,  the 
tendency  to  take  himself  at  times  somewhat  too  seriously  ;  and,  in  his 
writings,  the  absence  of  that  saving  sense  of  '  the  little  more '  and 
'  the  little  less '  without  which  perfect  proportion  and  perfect  taste 
are  weli-nigh  impossible  in  artistic  productions. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        283 

Next,  prompted  by  this  reference  to  Cicero  and 
Plato,  you  discourse — with  wonderful  eloquence  and 
charm  for  one  who  is  speaking  about  things  that  he 
does  not  understand — upon  the  poets  in  general, 
entering  into  an  enthusiastic  discussion  of  the  iden- 
tity of  one  and  another  of  them,  the  time  when 
they  were  born,  the  characteristics  of  their  style,  the 
particular  kind  of  poetry  that  they  affected,  and 
their  place  upon  the  roll  of  fame.  To  review  all 
this  in  detail  would  be  too  long  a  task, — so  numerous 
are  the  things  which  none  of  us  had  ever  heard  of 
before,  but  you  have  now  disclosed  to  such  of  us  as 
are  eager  to  learn,  in  this  eloquent  epistle.  And 
yet  on  second  thought,  if  you  will  concede  to  me, 
or  rather  not  to  me  but  to  my  calling,  the  right  to 
offer  just  one  objection,  I  shall  express  my  wonder 
at  finding  the  names  of  Naevius  and  Plautus  so  en- 
tirely unknown  to  you  that  you  think  me  guilty  of 
a  solecism  in  inserting  them  in  my  letter,  and  re- 
prove me  indirectly  for  daring,  as  Flaccus  puts  it, 
to  invent  characters  before  unheard  of.  You  do 
not  make  this  charge  in  so  many  words,  but  your 
doubts  are  such  and  so  stated  as  to  amount  to 
nothing  less  than  a  condemnation  of  my  temerity  in 
bringing  upon  the  stage  names  that  are  strange  and 
foreign.  It  is  true,  you  did  in  the  end  curb  your 
longing  to  speak  plainly,  and  with  your  usual 
courtesy  and  modesty  chose  to  blame  rather  your 
own  ignorance.  And  yet,  unless  I  am  greatly  mis- 
taken, it  is  one  of  those  cases  where  a  man's  words 
say  one  thing  but  his  real  convictions  loudly  pro- 
claim another.  I  wonder  at  this,  for  Terence  you 


284  Petrarch 

seem  to  know  very  well,  and  he,  at  the  very  be- 
ginning of  his  works,  in  the  prologue  of  the  Andria, 
makes  definite  mention  of  Naevius  and  Plautus,  and, 
in  the  same  verse,  of  Ennius  too.  Then  in  the 
Eunuchus  he  refers  to  them  again,  and  in  the  Adelphi 
speaks  of  Plautus  alone.  Cicero,  too,  mentions  them 
together,  in  his  De  Senectute,  and  Aulus  Gellius  in 
his  Nodes  Atticcz,  where  he  gives  their  epitaphs,  in 
old-fashioned  Latin.  All  this  argument  is  needless, 
however,  for  who  ever  heard  the  name  of  poetry 
apart  from  the  names  of  these  two  men  ?  Your 
amazement  therefore  fills  me  with  amaze ;  and  I  beg 
you,  my  father, — if  you  will  let  me  speak  freely, — not 
to  allow  these  lucubrations  of  yours  to  pass  into  any 
hands  but  mine.  The  brighter  one's  renown,  the 
more  carefully  should  it  be  guarded.  To  me,  indeed, 
you  may  say  whatever  you  wish,  as  freely  as  to 
yourself.  You  may  change  and  retract,  as  scholars 
have  to  do  when  they  commune  with  their  own  past 
thoughts.  But  when  your  words  have  gone  abroad 
all  power  of  choice  is  taken  away,  and  you  must 
submit  to  whatever  judgments  the  multitude  may 
pronounce  upon  you.  I  send  your  letter  back  to 
you  in  safe  custody,  and  send  this  with  it,  keeping 
a  copy,  though,  simply  that  I  may  be  able,  if  you 
should  desire  to  continue  the  discussion,  to  place 
your  arguments  by  the  side  of  mine  which  called 
them  forth,  instead  of  having  to  tax  my  memory  for 
what  I  had  said.  .  .  . 

In  writing  thus  I  do  not  for  a  moment  forget  that 
a  letter  of  reproof  addressed  to  a  father  by  a  son  can 
scarcely  fail  to  seem  harsh  and  rude.  But  you  must 


The  Father  of  Humanism        285 

let  my  love  for  you  excuse  such  boldness.  My  re- 
gard for  your  reputation  compels  me  to  speak,  for 
if  I  keep  silent  you  will  be  sure  to  hear  these  things 
from  others,  or,  still  worse,  will  be  injured  by  severe 
judgments  uttered  behind  your  back.  .  .  . 

Let  me  say,  then,  that  I  detect  in  your  writings  a 
constant  effort  to  make  a  display.  This,  I  take  it, 
accounts  for  your  tendency  to  roam  through  strange 
volumes,  culling  out  fine  passages  to  weave  into 
your  own  discourses.  Your  pupils,  amazed  at  such 
an  array  of  names,  applaud  you  and  call  you  omni- 
scient, just  as  if  you  really  knew  every  author  the 
titles  of  whose  books  your  memory  happens  to  re- 
tain. Scholars,  however,  find  it  easy  to  discriminate 
between  a  man's  acquisitions  and  his  borrowings; 
easy,  too,  to  determine  what  portion  of  the  latter 
he  has  a  right  to,  what  he  holds  by  precarious  tenure, 
and  what  he  has  simply  stolen ;  when  he  has  drunk 
deep,  from  a  full  fountain,  and  when  he  has  taken 
only  a  hasty  sip. 

It  is  a  childish  thing  to  glory  in  a  mere  display  of 
memory.  As  Seneca  has  said,  it  is  unseemly  for  a 
grown  man  to  go  gathering  nosegays;  he  should 
care  for  fruit  rather  than  flowers.  But  you,  in  spite 
of  your  years  and  the  venerableness  that  they  have 
brought  with  them  ;  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  are 
of  great  eminence  in  your  profession;  indeed, — for 
this  task  of  taking  you  down  is  a  thankless  one,  and 
I  am  glad  now  and  then  to  try  smoothing  you  down 
instead,1 — are  the  very  first  man  of  your  time  in  the 

1  The  original  demands  some  such  forced  play  upon  words :  '  ut 
non  semper  pungam  sed  interdum  ungam.' 


286  Petrarch 

department  of  literature  to  which  you  have  devoted 
yourself,  nevertheless,  like  a  truant  child,  break 
bounds,  and  go  wandering  away  into  fields  where 
you  do  not  belong,  and  spend  the  evening  of  your 
days  in  picking  pretty  flowers.  You  seem  to  take 
delight  in  exploring  new  regions,  where  the  paths 
are  unknown  to  you  and  you  are  sure  to  go  astray 
once  in  a  while  or  fall  into  a  pit.  You  like  to 
follow  the  example  of  those  who  parade  their  know- 
ledge before  their  doors,  like  so  much  merchan- 
dise, while  their  houses  within  are  empty.  Ah !  it  is 
safer  to  be  something  than  to  be  always  trying  to 
seem  to  be.  Ostentation  is  difficult  and  dangerous. 
Moreover,  just  when  you  are  most  desirous  of  being 
deemed  great,  innumerable  little  things  are  sure  to 
happen  which  not  only  reduce  you  to  your  true 
dimensions  but  bring  you  below  them.  No  one  in- 
tellect should  ever  strive  for  distinction  in  more  than 
one  pursuit.  Those  who  boast  of  preeminence  in 
many  arts  are  either  divinely  endowed  or  utterly 
shameless  or  simply  mad.  Who  ever  heard  of  such 
presumption  in  olden  times,  on  the  part  of  either 
Greeks  or  men  of  our  own  race  ?  It  is  a  new  prac- 
tice, a  new  kind  of  effrontery.  To-day  men  write 
up  over  their  doors  inscriptions  full  of  vainglory, 
containing  claims  which,  if  true,  would  make  them, 
as  Pliny  puts  it,  superior  even  to  the  law  of  the 
land.  But  when  one  looks  within — ye  gods !  what 
emptiness  is  there ! 

So,  in  conclusion,  I  beg  you,  if  my  words  have 
any  weight,  to  be  content  within  your  own  bounds. 
Do  not  imitate  these  men  who  are  all  promise  and 


The  Father  of  Humanism        287 

no  performance ;  who,  as  the  comic  poet  has  said, 
know  everything  and  yet  know  nothing.  There  is 
a  certain  wise  old  Greek  proverb  that  bids  everyone 
stick  to  the  trade  that  he  understands.  Farewell.1 

The  Young  Humanist  of  Ravenna. 
To  Boccaccio? 

A  year  after  your  departure  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  secure  the  services  of  a  fine,  generous,  young  lad, 
whom  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  know.  He  knows  you 
well,  for  he  has  often  seen  you,  at  Venice,  in  your 
house,3  where  I  am  now  living,  and  also  at  the  home 
of  our  friend  Donate,  and  on  such  occasions  has  ob- 
served you  very  carefully,  as  is  natural  at  his  age. 
I  want  you  to  know  him,  too,  so  far  as  that  is  pos- 
sible at  such  long  range,  and  to  see  him  with  the 
mind's  eye,  when  you  read  my  letters,  and  so  I  will 
tell  you  a  little  about  him.  He  was  born  on  the 
coast  of  the  Adriatic,  at  about  the  time,  if  I  am  not 

1  The  old  jurist  did  not  take  this  criticism  kindly,  but  made  an 
angry  effort  to  justify  himself  ;  whereupon  Petrarch  wrote  again,  ex- 
posing his  ignorance  and  childishness  more  savagely  even  than  in 
this  first  epistle. 

2  Fam.,  xxiii.,  19. 

3  The  reader  must  not  be  led  by  thisfafon  de parler  to  infer  that 
the  impecunious  Boccaccio  owned  a  mansion  in  Venice.     Petrarch 
was  fond  of  speaking  of  his  own  possessions  as  belonging  to  his  friends  ; 
he  refers  here  to  the  house  furnished  him  by  the  Venetian  government 
in  exchange  for  his  library.     Boccaccio  had  visited  him  there,  in  the 
summer  of  1363,  some  two  years  before  this  letter  was  written. — For 
the  discussions  to  which  the  description  of  this  brilliant  youth  have 
given  rise  the  reader  is  referred  to  Fracassetti's  long  note,  Let.  delle 
Cose  Fam.,  v.,  91  sqq. 


288  Petrarch 

mistaken,  when  you  were  living  there,1  with  the 
former  lord  of  that  region,  the  grandfather  of  him 
who  now  holds  sway.  The  lad's  own  family  and 
fortune  are  humble.  But  he  is  well  endowed,  never- 
theless. He  has  a  force  of  character  and  a  power  of 
self-control  that  would  be  praiseworthy  even  in  old 
age;  and  a  mind  that  is  keen  and  flexible;  and  a 
memory  that  is  rapacious,  and  capacious,  and,  best 
of  all,  tenacious.  My  bucolics,  which  are  divided 
off  into  twelve  eclogues,  as  you  know,  he  committed 
to  memory  within  eleven  days,  reciting  one  section 
to  me  each  evening  and  two  the  last  time,  repeating 
them  without  a  single  hitch,  as  if  he  had  the  book  be- 
fore his  eyes.  Besides  that,  he  has  himself  a  great 
deal  of  invention, — a  rare  thing  in  these  days, — 
and  a  fine  enthusiasm,  and  a  heart  that  loves  the 
Muses;  and  he  is  already,  as  Maro  hath  it,  making 
new  songs  of  his  own ;  and  if  he  lives,  and  his  de- 
velopment keeps  pace  with  his  years,  as  I  am  con- 
fident it  will,  he  surely  will  be  something  great,  as 
was  prophesied  of  Ambrose  by  his  father.  There  is 
much  to  be  said  for  him  even  now,  at  an  age  when 
usually  there  is  very  little  to  say.  Of  one  of  his 
good  tendencies  you  have  just  heard.  You  shall 
hear  now  of  another,  a  trait  that  constitutes  the  best 
possible  foundation  for  sound  character  and  solid 
intellectual  attainments.  As  the  common  herd  loves 
money  and  longs  to  possess  it,  even  so,  and  more, 
does  he  hate  it  and  spurn  it.  To  '  add  to  golden 
numbers  golden  numbers '  he  considers  labour 
worse  than  lost.  He  is  scarcely  willing  to  acquire 

1  At  Ravenna. 


The  Father  of  Humanism        289 

the  necessaries  of  life.  In  his  love  of  solitude,  his 
fasting,  his  vigils,  he  vies  with  me,  often  surpasses 
me.  In  brief,  his  character  has  so  recommended 
him  to  me  that  he  is  every  bit  as  dear  to  me  as  a  son 
whom  I  had  begotten;  perhaps  dearer,  because  a 
son — such  alas!  are  the  ways  of  our  young  men 
nowadays — would  wish  to  rule,  while  all  his  study 
is  to  obey,  to  follow  not  his  own  inclinations  but 
my  will,  and  this  not  from  any  selfish  motive,  such 
as  the  hope  of  reward,  but  solely  from  love  and, 
possibly,  an  expectation  of  being  benefited  by  as- 
sociation with  me.1  .  .  . 

And  now  I  come,  at  the  close,  to  what  really  was 
first  in  my  thoughts.  The  lad  has  a  decided  leaning 
toward  poetry ;  and  if  he  perseveres  in  his  efforts, 
till  in  due  time  he  learns  to  think  clearly  and  vigor- 
ously, he  will  compel  your  wonder  and  your  con- 
gratulations. But  so  far  he  is  vague  and  uncertain, 
because  of  the  feebleness  of  youth,  and  does  not 
always  know  what  he  wants  to  say.  What  he  does 
want  to,  however,  he  says  very  nobly  and  beautifully. 
So  it  frequently  happens  that  there  falls  from  him 
some  poem  that  is  not  only  pleasing  to  the  ear  but 
dignified  and  graceful  and  well-considered,  the  sort 
of  work  that  you  would  ascribe,  if  you  were  ignorant 
of  the  author,  to  some  writer  of  long  experience. 
I  am  confident  that  he  will  develop  vigour  of  thought 
and  expression,  and  work  out,  as  the  result  of  his 
experiments,  a  style  of  his  own,  and  learn  to  avoid 
imitation,  or,  better,  to  conceal  it,  so  as  to  give  the 
impression  not  of  copying  but  rather  of  bringing  to 

1  For  the  passage  here  omitted  see  p.  150  sq.  above. 


290  Petrarch 

Italy  from  the  writers  of  old  something  new.  Now, 
however,  imitation  actually  is  his  greatest  joy,  as  is 
usual  at  his  time  of  life.  Sometimes  his  delight  in 
another's  genius  seems  to  lend  to  his  spirit  wings, 
and  he  defies  all  the  restraints  of  his  art  and  soars 
aloft,  so  high  that  he  cannot  continue  his  flight  as 
he  should,  and  has  to  descend  in  a  fashion  that  be- 
trays him.  The  strongest  of  all  these  admirations 
is  for  Virgil.  It  is  marvellously  strong.  He  thinks 
very  many  of  our  poets  worthy  of  praise,  but  Virgil 
worthy  almost  of  worship.  He  loves  him  so,  is  so 
fascinated  by  him,  that  he  often  takes  pains  to 
weave  bits  from  his  poems  into  his  own  verse.  I, 
rejoicing  to  find  that  he  is  overtaking  me  and  long- 
ing to  see  him  press  on  and  become  what  I  have 
always  aspired  to  be,  warn  him,  in  a  fatherly  and 
friendly  fashion,  to  consider  carefully  what  he  is 
about.  An  imitator  must  see  to  it  that  what  he 
writes  is  similar,  but  not  the  very  same;  and  the 
similarity,  moreover,  should  be  not  like  that  of  a 
painting  or  statue  to  the  person  represented,  but 
rather  like  that  of  a  son  to  a  father,  where  there  is 
often  great  difference  in  the  features  and  members, 
and  yet  after  all  there  is  a  shadowy  something, — akin 
to  what  our  painters  call  one's  air, — hovering  about 
the  face,  and  especially  the  eyes,  out  of  which  there 
grows  a  likeness  that  immediately,  upon  our  behold- 
ing the  child,  calls  the  father  up  before  us.  If  it 
were  a  matter  of  measurement  every  detail  would 
be  found  to  be  different,  and  yet  there  certainly  is 
some  subtle  presence  there  that  has  this  effect. 
In  much  the  same  way  we  writers,  too,  must  see  to 


The  Father  of  Humanism        291 

it  that  along  with  the  similarity  there  is  a  large 
measure  of  dissimilarity;  and  furthermore  such  like- 
ness as  there  is  must  be  elusive,  something  that  it  is 
impossible  to  seize  except  by  a  sort  of  still-hunt,  a 
quality  to  be  felt  rather  than  defined.  In  brief,  we 
may  appropriate  another's  thought,  and  may  even 
copy  the  very  colours '  of  his  style,  but  we  must 
abstain  from  borrowing  his  actual  words.  The  re- 
semblance in  the  one  case  is  hidden  away  below  the 
surface ;  in  the  other  it  stares  the  reader  in  the  face. 
The  one  kind  of  imitation  makes  poets ;  the  other 
— apes.  It  may  all  be  summed  up  by  saying  with 
Seneca,  and  with  Flaccus  before  him,  that  we  must 
write  just  as  the  bees  make  honey,  not  keeping  the 
flowers  but  turning  them  into  a  sweetness  of  our 
own,  blending  many  very  different  flavours  into  one, 
which  shall  be  unlike  them  all,  and  better. 

I  often  say  such  things,  and  he  always  listens  as 

1  A  metaphor  of  which  Petrarch  is  fond.  Usually  his  employment 
of  it  can  be  traced  directly  to  Cicero  and  Quintilian,  but  now  and 
then  it  occurs  in  a  passage  that  seems  to  tell  of  his  own  keen  delight 
in  the  sensuous  side  of  language  ;  as  in  Fam.,  viii.,  7,  where  he  says  to 
'  Socrates ' :  '  Ubi  .  .  .  dulciter  intermicantes  colores  rhetoricos 
quaerebamus,  nil  nisi  dolentis  interjectiones  .  .  .  aspicimus.'  This 
quotation,  and  the  entire  letter  above,  concerning  the  young  Hu- 
manist, are  but  two  among  very  many  indications,  scattered  through 
the  whole  correspondence,  that  Petrarch  had  thought  long  and  care- 
fully about  literary  art,  and  had  formulated  to  himself  all  of  its  prin- 
ciples, down  to  the  very  least.  His  judgment  and  feeling  concerning 
literature  were  unerring,  except  when  he  was  led  astray  by  his  alle- 
gorising tendency  and  by  a  mediaeval  fondness  for  senseless  plays 
upon  words.  Yet  outside  of  his  own  art  he  seems  to  have  been  de- 
cidedly crude  aesthetically,  as  has  been  the  case  with  many  another 
great  man  of  letters,  before  and  since. 


Petrarch 


he  would  to  his  own  father.  It  happened  the  other 
day,  though,  as  I  was  advising  him  in  this  fashion, 
that  he  offered  the  following  objection.  "  I  see 
your  meaning,"  he  said,  "  and  I  admit  the  truth  of 
all  that  you  say.  But  the  occasional,  sparing,  use 
of  others'  words,  —  that  is  a  thing  for  which  I  have 
abundant  warrant,  in  the  practice  of  very  many  of 
our  poets,  and  of  yourself  above  all.  '  '  I  was  amazed, 
and  replied,  "  If  ever  you  have  found  such  things 
in  my  works,  my  son,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  is 
due  to  some  oversight,  and  is  very  far  from  being 
my  deliberate  intention.  I  know  that  cases  of  this 
sort,  where  a  writer  makes  use  of  another's  words, 
are  to  be  found  by  the  thousand  in  the  poets  ;  but 
I  myself  have  always  taken  the  utmost  pains,  when 
composing,  to  avoid  every  trace  both  of  my  own 
work  and,  more  particularly,  of  my  predecessors', 
difficult  though  such  avoidance  is.  But  where, 
pray,  is  this  passage  of  mine,  by  which  you  justify 
yourself  ?  "  "In  your  bucolics,  number  six,  where, 
not  far  from  the  end,  there  is  a  verse  that  concludes 
with  these  words:  atque  intonat  ore."  I  was  as- 
tounded ;  for  I  realised,  as  he  spoke,  what  I  had 
failed  to  see  when  writing,  that  this  is  the  ending 
of  one  of  Virgil's  lines,  in  the  sixth  book  of  his 
divine  poem.  I  determined  to  communicate  the 
discovery  to  you  ;  not  that  there  is  room  any  longer 
for  correction,  the  poem  being  well  known  by  this 
time  and  scattered  far  and  wide,  but  that  you  might 
upbraid  yourself  for  having  left  it  to  another  to 
point  out  this  slip  of  mine  ;  or,  if  it  has  chanced  to 
escape  your  own  notice  so  far,  that  you  might  learn 


The  Father  of  Humanism        293 

of  it  now,  and  at  the  same  time  might  be  led  to 
reflect  on  the  fact  that  we  mortals,  all  of  us, — not  I 
alone,  who  with  all  my  zeal  and  industry  am  handi- 
capped by  insufficiency  of  talent  and  literary  train- 
ing, but  all  other  men  as  well,  however  great  their 
learning  and  their  abilities, — are  so  limited  in  our 
powers  that  all  our  inventions  have  some  element  of 
incompleteness,  perfection  being  the  prerogative 
of  him  alone  from  whom  proceeds  the  little  that  we 
know  and  are  able  to  do.  Then,  in  conclusion,  I 
want  you  to  join  me  in  praying  Virgil  to  pardon  me,  V 
and  not  harden  his  heart  against  me  for  unwittingly 
borrowing  —  not  stealing  —  these  few  words  from 
him, — who  himself  has  stolen  outright,  many  and 
many  a  time,  from  Homer,  and  Ennius,  and  Lucre- 
tius, and  many  another  poet.  Farewell. 

PA  VIA,  Oct.  28,  [1365]. 


IV 

TRAVELS 


295 


Ulysseos  errores  erroribus  meis  confer:  profecto  si 
nominis  et  rerum  claritas  una  foret,  nee  diutius  erravit 
ille,  nee  latius. — Pr&fatio. 


296 


THE  Italians  were  probably  the  first  among 
modern  peoples  to  discover  the  outer 
world  to  be  something  beautiful  in  itself. 
"  Would  that  you  could  know,"  Petrarch  writes 
to  a  friend,  "  with  what  delight  I  wander,  free 
and  alone,  among  the  mountains,  forests,  and 
streams."  He  spent  many  years,  as  we  have 
seen,  in  his  simple  rustic  home  at  Vaucluse, 
and  throughout  his  life  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
retiring  now  and  then  to  the  seclusion  of  the 
country.  In  no  way  did  his  tastes  more  nearly 
approach  our  modern  predilections  than  in  his 
love  of  nature  and  his  passion  for  travel. 

He  was  once  invited  to  accompany  a  friend 
upon  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  but  he  dis- 
creetly refused  the  invitation  ;  not  that  he  feared 
the  perils  of  the  deep,  but  he  could  not  overcome 
his  horror  of  sea-sickness,  which  he  had  sev- 
eral times  experienced  upon  the  Mediterranean. 
Instead  of  joining  his  friend,  he  prepared  a 
little  guide-book1  for  him,  which  might  serve 
to  call  his  attention  to  the  noteworthy  objects 

1  Itinerarium  Syriacum,  Opera^  pp.  556  sqq. 
297 


298  Petrarch 

upon  the  long  journey  from  Genoa  to  Jerusa- 
lem. It  is  significant  that  Petrarch  deals 
principally  in  his  little  manual  not  with  the 
half-legendary  attractions  of  the  Orient,  but 
with  the  familiar  beauties  of  their  own  Italy. 
He  does  not  forget,  at  the  very  opening  of  the 
journey,  the  lovely  valleys  of  the  Riviera,  with 
their  tumbling  brooks,  and  the  pleasing  con- 
trast of  wildness  and  verdure  on  the  hills  to 
the  east  of  Genoa.  But,  like  a  true  lover  of 
nature,  he  felt  himself  powerless  adequately  to 
describe  the  scene,  and  contented  himself  with 
commending  to  his  friend's  admiration  the 
beauties  which  no  mortal  pen  could  depict.1 
The  four  letters  which  follow  have  been  chosen 
with  the  aim  of  illustrating  Petrarch's  attitude 
toward  the  world  about  him. 

An  Excursion  to  Paris,  the  Netherlands,  and 
the  Rhine. 

To  Cardinal  Giovanni  Colonna? 

I  have  lately  been  travelling  through  France,  not 
on  business,  as  you  know,  but  simply  from  a  youth- 

1 ' '  Quae  multo  f acilius  tibi  sit  mirari  quam  cuiquam  hominum 
stylo  amplecti."  Itinerariunt  Syriacum,  Opera,  p.  557. 

9  Fam.,  i.,  3,  4.  The  two  letters  in  which  Petrarch  describes  his 
journey  to  the  north  are  here  given  together.  The  first  is  dated 
from  Aix-la-Chapelle,  June  21  [1333],  and  the  second  from  Lyons, 
August  9,  of  the  same  year. 


Travels  299 

ful  curiosity  to  see  the  country.  I  finally  penetrated 
into  Germany,  to  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  itself.  I 
have  carefully  noted  the  customs  of  the  people,  and 
have  been  much  interested  in  observing  the  charac- 
teristics of  a  country  hitherto  unknown  to  me,  and 
in  comparing  the  things  I  saw  with  those  at  home. 
While  I  found  much  to  admire  in  both  countries,  I 
in  no  way  regretted  my  Italian  origin.  Indeed,  the 
more  I  travel,  the  more  my  admiration  for  Italy 
grows.  If  Plato,  as  he  himself  says,  thanked  the 
immortal  gods,  among  other  things,  for  making  him 
a  Greek  and  not  a  barbarian,  why  should  not  we 
too  thank  the  Lord  for  the  land  of  our  birth,  unless 
to  be  born  a  Greek  be  considered  more  noble  than  to 
be  born  an  Italian.  This,  however,  would  be  to  as- 
sert that  the  slave  was  above  his  master.  No  Greek- 
ling,  however  shameless,  would  dare  to  make  such  a 
claim,  if  he  but  recollected  that  long  before  Rome 
was  founded  and  had  by  superior  strength  estab- 
lished her  sway,  long  before  the  world  yet  knew  of  the 
Romans,  "  men  of  the  toga,  lords  of  the  earth,"  a 
beggarly  fourth  part  of  Italy,  a  region  desert  and  un- 
inhabited, was  nevertheless  styled  by  its  Greek  col- 
onists ' '  Greater  Greece. "  If  that  scanty  area  could 
then  be  called  great,  how  very  great,  how  immense, 
must  the  Roman  power  have  seemed  after  Corinth 
had  fallen,  after  ^Etolia  had  been  devastated  and 
Argos,  Mycenae,  and  other  cities  had  been  taken, 
after  the  Macedonian  kings  had  been  captured, 
Pyrrhus  vanquished,  and  Thermopylae  a  second  time 
drenched  with  Asiatic  blood  !  Certainly  no  one  can 
deny  that  it  is  a  trifle  more  distinguished  to  be  an 


300  Petrarch 

Italian  than  a  Greek.  This,  however,  is  a  matter 
which  we  'may  perhaps  take  up  elsewhere. 

To  revert  to  my  travels  in  France, — I  visited  the 
capital  of  the  kingdom,  Paris,  which  claims  Julius 
Caesar  as  its  founder.  I  must  have  felt  much  the 
same  upon  entering  the  town  as  did  Apuleius  when 
he  wandered  about  Hypata  in  Thessaly.  I  spent 
no  little  time  there,  in  open-mouthed  wonder;  and  I 
was  so  full  of  interest  and  eagerness  to  know  the 
truth  about  what  I  had  heard  of  the  place  that 
when  daylight  failed  me  I  even  prolonged  my  in- 
vestigations into  the  night.  After  loitering  about 
for  a  long  time,  gaping  at  the  sights,  I  at  last  satis- 
fied myself  that  I  had  discovered  the  point  where 
truth  left  off  and  fiction  began.  But  it  is  a  long 
story,  and  not  suited  for  a  letter,  and  I  must  wait 
until  I  see  you  and  can  rehearse  my  experiences  at 
length. 

To  pass  over  the  intervening  events,  I  also  visited 
Ghent,  which  proudly  claims  the  same  illustrious 
founder  as  Paris,  and  I  saw  something  of  the  people 
of  Flanders  and  Brabant,  who  devote  themselves  to 
preparing  and  weaving  wool.  I  also  visited  Liege, 
which  is  noted  for  its  clergy,  and  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
Charles's  capital,  where  in  a  marble  church  I  saw 
the  tomb  of  that  great  prince,  which  is  very 
properly  an  object  of  veneration  to  the  barbarian 
nations.1 

I  did  not  leave  Ajx^la-Chapelle  until -I  had  bathed 
in  the  waters,  which  are  warm  like  those  at  Baiae.  It 

1  This  first  letter  closes,  here  with  a  legend  of  Charles  the  Great 
whi(5h  Petrarch  heard^  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  • 


Travels  301 

is  from  them  that  the  town  is  said  to  derive  its  name.1 
I  then  proceeded  to  Cologne,  which  lies  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  and  is  noted  for  its  situation,  its 
river,  and  its  inhabitants.  I  was  astonished  to  find 
such  a  degree  of  culture  in  a  barbarous  land.  The 
appearance  of  the  city,  the  dignity  of  the  men, 
the  attractiveness  of  the  women,  all  surprised  me. 
The  day  of  my  arrival  happened  to  be  the  feast  of 
St.  John  the  Baptist.  It  was  nearly  sunset  when 
I  reached  the  city.  On  the  advice  of  the  friends 
whom  my  reputation,  rather  than  any  true  merit, 
had  won  for  me  even  there,  I  allowed  myself  to  be 
led  immediately  from  the  inn  to  the  river,  to  wit- 
ness a  curious  sight.  And  I  was  not  disappointed, 
for  I  found  the  river-bank  lined  with  a  multitude  of 
remarkably  comely  women.  Ye  gods,  what  faces 
and  forms!  And  how  well  attired!  One  whose 
heart  was  not  already  occupied  might  well  have 
met  his  fate  here. 

I  took  my  stand  upon  a  little  rise  of  ground  where 
I  could  easily  follow  what  was  going  on.  There 
was  a  dense  mass  of  people,  but  no  disorder  of  any 
kind.  They  knelt  down  in  quick  succession  on  the 
bank,  half  hidden  by  the  fragrant  grass,  and  turning 
up  their  sleeves  above  the  elbow  they  bathed  their 
hands  and  white  arms  in  the  eddying  stream.  As 
they  talked  together,  with  an  indescribably  soft 
foreign  murmur,  I  felt  that  I  had  never  better  ap- 
preciated Cicero's  remark,  which,  like  the  old  pro- 
verb, reminds  us  that  we  are  all  deaf  and  dumb 
when  we  have  to  do  with  an  unknown  tongue.  I, 

1  /.  e. ,  Aquisgrana. 


302  Petrarch 

however,  had  the  aid  of  kind  interpreters,  for — and 
this  was  not  the  least  surprising  thing  I  noted  there 
— these  skies,  too,  give  nurture  to  Pierian  spirits. 
So  when  Juvenal  wonders  that 

Fluent  Gaul  has  taught  the  British  advocate,1 
let  him  marvel,  too,  that 
Learned  Germany  many  a  clear-voiced  bard  sustained. 

But,  lest  you  should  be  misled  by  my  words,  I  hasten 
to  add  that  there  are  no  Virgils  here,  although  many 
Ovids,"  so  that  you  would  say  that  the  latter  author 
was  justified  in  his  reliance  upon  his  genius  or  the 
affection  of  posterity,  when  he  placed  at  the  end  of 
his  Metamorphoses  that  audacious  prophecy  where 
he  ventures  to  claim  that  as  far  as  the  power  of 
Rome  shall  extend, — nay,  as  far  as  the  very  name  of 
Roman  shall  penetrate  in  a  conquered  world, — so 
widely  shall  his  works  be  read  by  enthusiastic 
admirers. 

When  anything  was  to  be  heard  or  said  I  had  to 
rely  upon  my  companions  to  furnish  both  ears  and 
tongue.  Not  understanding  the  scene,  and  being 
deeply  interested  in  it,  I  asked  an  explanation  from 
one  of  my  friends,  employing  the  Virgilian  lines : 

.     .     .     What  means  the  crowded  shore  ? 
What  seek  these  eager  spirits  ? 3 

1  Sat.,  xv.,  in. 

2  The  context  would  seem  to  indicate  (as  Fracassetti  and  de  Nolhac 
[op.  «'/.,  p.  148]  assume)  that   Petrarch  means  that  many  copies  of 
Ovid  but  none  of  Virgil  were  to  be  found  at  Cologne. 

3  ALneid,  vi.,  318  sq. 


Travels  303 

He  told  me  that  this  was  an  old  custom  among 
the  people,  and  that  the  lower  classes,  especially 
the  women,  have  the  greatest  confidence  that  the 
threatening  calamities  of  the  coming  year  can  be 
washed  away  by  bathing  on  this  day  in  the  river, 
and  a  happier  fate  be  so  assured.  Consequently 
this  annual  ablution  has  always  been  conscientiously 
performed,  and  always  will  be.  I  smiled  at  this  ex- 
planation, and  replied,  "  Those  who  dwell  by  Father 
Rhine  are  fortunate  indeed  if  he  washes  their  mis- 
fortunes away  with  him;  I  fear  that  neither  Po  nor 
Tiber  could  ever  free  us  of  ours.  You  send  your 
ills  to  the  Britons,  by  the  river;  we  would  gladly 
ship  ours  off  to  the  Africans  or  Illyrians. "  But  I 
was  given  to  understand  that  our  rivers  were  too 
sluggish.  There  was  a  great  laugh  over  this,  and 
then,  as  it  was  getting  late,  we  left  the  spot  and 
returned  home. 

During  the  few  days  following  I  wandered  about 
the  city,  under  the  guidance  of  my  friends,  from 
morning  until  night.  I  enjoyed  these  rambles  not 
so  much  for  what  I  actually  saw  as  on  account  of 
the  reminiscences  of  our  ancestors,  who  have  left 
such  extraordinary  monuments  to  the  Roman  power 
in  this  far-distant  country.  Marcus  Agrippa  came, 
perhaps,  most  prominently  before  me.  He  was  the 
founder  of  this  colony,  to  which,  in  preference  to 
all  his  other  great  works  whether  at  home  or  abroad, 
he  gave  his  own  name.  He  was  a  great  builder  as 
well  as  a  distinguished  warrior.  His  fame  was  such 
that  he  was  chosen  by  Augustus  as  the  most  desir- 
able son-in-law  in  the  world.  His  wife,  whatever  else 


304  Petrarch 

we  may  say  of  her,  was  at  least  a  remarkable  woman, 
the  Emperor's  only  child  and  very  dear  to  him.  I 
beheld  the  bodies  of  the  thousands  of  holy  virgins 
who  had  suffered  together,  and  the  ground  dedicated 
to  these  noble  relics — ground  which  they  say  will 
of  its  own  accord  reject  an  unworthy  corpse.  I 
beheld  the  Capitol,  which  is  an  imitation  of  ours. 
But  in  place  of  our  senate,  meeting  to  consider  the 
exigencies  of  peace  and  war,  here  one  finds  beauti- 
ful boys  and  girls  ever  lifting  up  together  their 
harmonious  voices  in  nightly  hymns  of  praise  to 
God.  There  one  might  hear  the  rattle  of  arms, 
the  rolling  chariots  and  the  groans  of  captives ;  but 
here  are  peace  and  happiness  and  the  voice  of  mirth. 
There  it  was  the  warrior  who  made  his  triumphal 
entry ;  here  it  is  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

I  saw,  too,  the  great  church  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  town.  It  is  very  beautiful,  although  still  uncom- 
pleted, and  is  not  unjustly  regarded  by  the  inhabit- 
ants as  the  finest  building  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
I  looked  with  reverence  upon  the  relics  of  the  Three 
Kings,  who,  as  we  read,  came  once  upon  a  time, 
bringing  presents,  to  worship  at  the  feet  of  a  Heav- 
enly King  as  he  lay  wailing  in  the  manger.  Their 
bodies  were  brought  from  the  East  to  the  West  in 
three  great  leaps.1 

You  may  perhaps  think,  noble  father,  that  I  have 
gone  too  far  just  here,  and  dwelt  upon  unimportant 
details.  I  readily  admit  it,  but  it  is  because  I  have 
nothing  more  at  heart  than  to  obey  your  commands. 
Among  the  many  instructions  which  you  gave  me,  as 
1  Namely,  to  Constantinople,  then  to  Milan,  and  finally  to  Cologne. 


Travels  305 

I  was  leaving,  the  last  one  was  that  I  should  write 
to  you  as  fully  about  the  countries  I  visited  and  the 
various  things  I  saw  and  heard  as  I  should  tell  about 
them,  were  we  face  to  face.  I  was  not  to  spare  the 
pen,  nor  to  strive  for  elegance  or  terseness  of  ex- 
pression. Everything  was  to  be  included,  not  simply 
the  more  picturesque  incidents.  In  Cicero's  words, 
you  told  me  to  write  "  whatever  might  come  into 
the  cheek."  I  promised  to  do  this,  and  from  the 
numerous  letters  which  I  have  despatched  on  the 
way  it  would  seem  that  I  had  kept  my  engage- 
ment. If  you  had  desired  me  to  treat  of  higher 
things  I  should  have  done  what  I  could  ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  in  the  present  case  that  the  object  of  my 
letter  should  be  rather  to  instruct  the  reader  than 
to  give  consequence  to  the  writer.  If  you  and  I  wish 
to  appear  before  the  public  we  can  do  so  in  books, 
but  in  our  letters  let  us  just  talk  with  one  another. 

But  to  continue,  I  left  Cologne  June  30,  in  such 
heat  and  dust  that  I  sighed  for  Virgil's  "  Alpine 
snows  and  the  rigours  of  the  Rhine. ' '  I  next  passed 
through  the  Forest  of  Ardennes,  alone,  and,  as  you 
will  be  surprised  to  hear,  in  time  of  war.  But  God, 
it  is  said,  grants  especial  protection  to  the  unwary. 
I  had  long  known  something  of  this  region  from 
books ;  it  seemed  to  me  a  very  wild  and  dismal  place 
indeed.  However,  I  will  not  undertake  with  my 
pen  a  journey  which  I  have  but  just  completed  with 
my  horse.  After  many  wanderings  I  reached  Lyons 
to-day.  It,  too,  is  a  noble  Roman  colony,  a  little 
older  even  than  Cologne.  From  this  point  two 
well  known  rivers  flow  together  into  our  ocean, — the 


306  Petrarch 

Rhone  here  joining  the  Arar,  or,  as  the  inhabitants 
now  call  it,  the  Saone.  But  I  need  not  tell  you  more 
about  them,  for  they  are  hurrying  on,  one  led  by 
the  other,  down  to  Avignon,  where  the  Roman 
pontiff  detains  you  and  the  whole  human  race. 

This  morning  when  I  arrived  here  I  ran  across  one 
of  your  servants  by  accident,  and  plied  him,  as  those 
newly  arrived  from  foreign  parts  are  wont  to  do, 
with  a  thousand  questions.  He  knew  nothing,  how- 
ever, except  that  your  noble  brother,  whom  I  was 
hastening  to  join,  had  gone  on  to  Rome  without 
me.  On  hearing  this  my  anxiety  to  proceed  sud- 
denly abated.  It  is  now  my  purpose  to  wait  here 
until  the  heat  too  shall  abate  somewhat,  and  until  I 
regain  my  vigour  by  a  little  rest.  I  had  not  realised 
that  I  had  suffered  from  either  source  until  I  met 
your  servant;  no  kind  of  weariness  indeed  is  so 
keenly  felt  as  that  of  the  mind.  If  the  journey 
promises  to  seem  tedious  to  me  I  shall  float  down 
the  Rhone.  In  the  meantime  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  your  faithful  servant  will  see  that  this  reaches 
you,  and  that  you  will  know  where  I  am.  As  for 
your  brother,  who  was  to  be  my  guide,  and  who 
now  (my  disappointment  must  be  my  excuse  for 
saying  it)  has  deserted  me,  I  feel  that  my  expostu- 
lations must  be  addressed  to  him  directly.  I 
beg  that  you  will  see  that  the  enclosed  message  ' 
reaches  him  as  soon  as  may  be.  Farewell.  Re- 
member your  friend. 

LYONS,  August  9. 

1This  letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Lombez  is  preserved,  and  is  to  be 
found  next  in  order  in  Fracassetti's  collection.  Fam.,  i.,  5. 


Travels  3°7 

A  good  deal  has  been  written  about  Petrarch's 
famous  ascent  of  Mount  Ventoux.  Korting 
assuredly  exaggerates  its  significance  when  he 
declares  it  "  an  epoch-making  deed "  which 
would  by  itself  substantiate  Petrarch's  title  to 
be  called  the  first  modern  man.1  The  reader 
will  observe  that,  however  modern  may  have 
been  the  spirit  in  which  the  excursion  was  un- 
dertaken, the  relapse  into  mediaeval  perversity 
was  speedy  and  complete.  As  we  shall  find, 
Petrarch  had  no  sooner  reached  the  top  than 
he  bethought  himself  of  his  Augustine,  before 
whose  stern  dictum  the  wide  landscape  quickly 
lost  its  fascination. 

The  Ascent  of  Mount  Ventoux. 
To  Dionisio  da  Borgo  San  Sepolcro* 

To-day  I  made  the  ascent  of  the  highest  mount- 
ain in  this  region,  which  is  not  improperly  called 

1  Op.  cit.,  p.  105. 

2  Fam. ,  iv. ,  I .     This  letter,  written  when  Petrarch  was  about  thirty- 
two  years  old,  is  addressed  to  an  Augustinian  monk,  professor  of 
divinity  and  philosophy  in  the  University  of  Paris,  which  drew  sev- 
eral of  its  most  famous  teachers  from  Italy.     It  was  probably  in  Paris, 
during  the  journey  described  above,  that  Petrarch  first  met  him. 
The  poet,  we  may  infer  from  the  present  letter,  made  him  his  spiritual 
confidant,  confessed  to  him  his  sinful  love  for  Laura,  whom  he  had 
first  met  six  years  before,  and  received  from  the  monk,  in  addition 
to  the  natural  spiritual  counsels,  a  copy  of  St.  Augustine's  Confes- 
sions, to  which  he  refers  below.     Dionysius  was  called  in  1339  to 


308  Petrarch 

Ventosum.1  My  only  motive  was  the  wish  to  see 
what  so  great  an  elevation  had  to  offer.  I  have  had 
the  expedition  in  mind  for  many  years;  for,  as  you 
know,  I  have  lived  in  this  region  from  infancy, 
having  been  cast  here  by  that  fate  which  determines 
the  affairs  of  men.  Consequently  the  mountain, 
which  is  visible  from  a  great  distance,  was  ever 
before  my  eyes,  and  I  conceived  the  plan  of  some 
time  doing  what  I  have  at  last  accomplished  to-day. 
The  idea  took  hold  upon  me  with  especial  force 
when,  in  re-reading  Livy's  History  of  Rome,  yester- 
day, I  happened  upon  the  place  where  Philip  of 
Macedon,  the  same  who  waged  war  against  the 
Romans,  ascended  Mount  Haemus  in  Thessaly, 
from  whose  summit  he  was  able,  it  is  said,  to  see 
two  seas,  the  Adriatic  and  the  Euxine.  Whether 
this  be  true  or  false  I  have  not  been  able  to  deter- 
mine, for  the  mountain  is  too  far  away,  and  writers 
disagree.  Pomponius  Mela,  the  cosmographer — 
not  to  mention  others  who  have  spoken  of  this  oc- 
currence —  admits  its  truth  without  hesitation ; 
Titus  Livius,  on  the  other  hand,  considers  it  false. 

Naples,  and  proved  an  agreeable  companion  for  the  sage  ruler  of  that 
kingdom,  not  only  on  account  of  his  distinguished  moral  and  intel- 
lectual qualities,  but  by  reason  of  his  proficiency  in  the  theory  and 
practice  of  astrology,  in  which  Robert  took  a  profound  interest.  This 
branch  of  his  knowledge  is — to  the  surprise  of  one  familiar  with  his 
views — sympathetically  dwelt  upon  by  Petrarch,  in  a  poetic  epistle 
(i.,  13)  addressed  to  Robert  on  the  death  of  their  common  friend  in 
1342.  Petrarch  nevertheless  often  fiercely  attacks  the  astrological 
arts,  and  is  distinguished  in  this  respect  from  even  the  most  enlight- 
ened men  of  his  time,  including  Boccaccio.  Cf.  Fracassetti,  Let. 
delle  Cose  Fam.^  i.,  p.  425. 
1  That  is,  Windy. 


Travels  309 

I,  assuredly,  should  not  have  left  the  question  long 
in  doubt,  had  that  mountain  been  as  easy  to  explore 
as  this  one.  Let  us  leave  this  matter  one  side, 
however,  and  return  to  my  mountain  here, — it  seems 
to  me  that  a  young  man  in  private  life  may  well  be 
excused  for  attempting  what  an  aged  king  could 
undertake  without  arousing  criticism. 

When  I  came  to  look  about  for  a  companion  I 
found,  strangely  enough,  that  hardly  one  among 
my  friends  seemed  suitable,  so  rarely  do  we  meet 
with  just  the  right  combination  of  personal  tastes 
and  characteristics,  even  among  those  who  are 
dearest  to  us.  This  one  was  too  apathetic,  that 
one  over-anxious;  this  one  too  slow,  that  one  too 
hasty;  one  was  too  sad,  another  over-cheerful; 
one  more  simple,  another  more  sagacious,  than  I 
desired.  I  feared  this  one's  taciturnity  and  that 
one's  loquacity.  The  heavy  deliberation  of  some 
repelled  me  as  much  as  the  lean  incapacity  of  others. 
I  rejected  those  who  were  likely  to  irritate  me  by  a 
cold  want  of  interest,  as  well  as  those  who  might 
weary  me  by  their  excessive  enthusiasm.  Such  de- 
fects, however  grave,  could  be  borne  with  at  home, 
for  charity  suffereth  all  things,  and  friendship  accepts 
any  burden ;  but  it  is  quite  otherwise  on  a  journey, 
where  every  weakness  becomes  much  more  serious. 
So,  as  I  was  bent  upon  pleasure  and  anxious  that 
my  enjoyment  should  be  unalloyed,  I  looked  about 
me  with  unusual  care,  balanced  against  one  another 
the  various  characteristics  of  my  friends,  and  with- 
out committing  any  breach  of  friendship  I  silently 
condemned  every  trait  which  might  prove  disagree- 


310  Petrarch 

able  on  the  way.  And — would  you  believe  it  ? — I 
finally  turned  homeward  for  aid,  and  proposed  the 
ascent  to  my  only  brother,  who  is  younger  than  I, 
and  with  whom  you  are  well  acquainted.  He  was 
delighted  and  gratified  beyond  measure  by  the 
thought  of  holding  the  place  of  a  friend  as  well  as 
of  a  brother. 

At  the  time  fixed  we  left  the  house,  and  by 
evening  reached  Malaucene,  which  lies  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  to  the  north.  Having  rested  there 
a  day,  we  finally  made  the  ascent  this  morning, 
with  no  companions  except  two  servants;  and  a 
most  difficult  task  it  was.  The  mountain  is  a  very 
steep  and  almost  inaccessible  mass  of  stony  soil. 
But,  as  the  poet  has  well  said,  "Remorseless  toil  con- 
quers all."  It  was  a  long  day,  the  air  fine.  We  en- 
joyed the  advantages  of  vigour  of  mind  and  strength 
and  agility  of  body,  and  everything  else  essential  to 
those  engaged  in  such  an  undertaking,  and  so  had 
no  other  difficulties  to  face  than  those  of  the  region 
itself.  We  found  an  old  shepherd  in  one  of  the 
mountain  dales,  who  tried,  at  great  length,  to  dis- 
suade us  from  the  ascent,  saying  that  some  fifty 
years  before  he  had,  in  the  same  ardour  of  youth, 
reached  the  summit,  but  had  gotten  for  his  pains 
nothing  except  fatigue  and  regret,  and  clothes  and 
body  torn  by  the  rocks  and  briars.  No  one,  so  far 
as  he  or  his  companions  knew,  had  ever  tried  the 
ascent  before  or  after  him.  But  his  counsels  in- 
creased rather  than  diminished  our  desire  to  proceed, 
since  youth  is  suspicious  of  warnings.  So  the  old 
man,  finding  that  his  efforts  were  in  vain,  went  a 


Travels  311 

little  way  with  us,  and  pointed  out  a  rough  path 
among  the  rocks,  uttering  many  admonitions,  which 
he  continued  to  send  after  us  even  after  we  had 
left  him  behind.  Surrendering  to  him  all  such 
garments  or  other  possessions  as  might  prove  bur- 
densome to  us,  we  made  ready  for  the  ascent,  and 
started  off  at  a  good  pace.  But,  as  usually  happens, 
fatigue  quickly  followed  upon  our  excessive  exertion, 
and  we  soon  came  to  a  halt  at  the  top  of  a  certain 
cliff.  Upon  starting  on  again  we  went  more  slowly, 
and  I  especially  advanced  along  the  rocky  way  with 
a  more  deliberate  step.  While  my  brother  chose 
a  direct  path  straight  up  the  ridge,  I  weakly  took 
an  easier  one  which  really  descended.  When  I 
was  called  back,  and  the  right  road  was  shown  me, 
I  replied  that  I  hoped  to  find  a  better  way  round 
on  the  other  side,  and  that  I  did  not  mind  going 
farther  if  the  path  were  only  less  steep.  This  was 
just  an  excuse  for  my  laziness;  and  when  the  others 
had  already  reached  a  considerable  height  I  was  still 
wandering  in  the  valleys.  I  had  failed  to  find  an 
easier  path,  and  had  only  increased  the  distance  and 
difficulty  of  the  ascent.  At  last  I  became  disgusted 
with  the  intricate  way  I  had  chosen,  and  resolved 
to  ascend  without  more  ado.  When  I  reached  my 
brother,  who,  while  waiting  for  me,  had  had  ample 
opportunity  for  rest,  I  was  tired  and  irritated.  We 
walked  along  together  for  a  time,  but  hardly  had  we 
passed  the  first  spur  when  I  forgot  about  the  cir- 
cuitous route  which  I  had  just  tried,  and  took  a 
lower  one  again.  Once  more  I  followed  an  easy, 
roundabout  path  through  winding  valleys,  only  to 


3 1 2  Petrarch 

find  myself  soon  in  my  old  difficulty.  I  was  simply 
trying  to  avoid  the  exertion  of  the  ascent ;  but  no 
human  ingenuity  can  alter  the  nature  of  things,  or 
cause  anything  to  reach  a  height  by  going  down. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that,  much  to  my  vexation  and  my 
brother's  amusement,  I  made  this  same  mistake 
three  times  or  more  during  a  few  hours. 

After  being  frequently  misled  in  this  way,  I  finally 
sat  down  in  a  valley  and  transferred  my  winged 
thoughts  from  things  corporeal  to  the  immaterial, 
addressing  myself  as  follows: — "  What  thou  hast 
repeatedly  experienced  to-day  in  the  ascent  of  this 
mountain,  happens  to  thee,  as  to  many,  in  the  jour- 
ney toward  the  blessed  life.  But  this  is  not  so 
readily  perceived  by  men,  since  the  motions  of  the 
body  are  obvious  and  external  while  those  of  the 
soul  are  invisible  and  hidden.  Yes,  the  life  which  we 
call  blessed  is  to  be  sought  for  on  a  high  eminence, 
and  strait  is  the  way  that  leads  to  it.  Many,  also, 
are  the  hills  that  lie  between,  and  we  must  ascend, 
by  a  glorious  stairway,  from  strength  to  strength. 
At  the  top  is  at  once  the  end  of  our  struggles  and 
the  goal  for  which  we  are  bound.  All  wish  to  reach 
this  goal,  but,  as  Ovid  says,  '  To  wish  is  little ;  we 
must  long  with  the  utmost  eagerness  to  gain  our 
end.'  Thou  certainly  dost  "ardently  desire,  as  well 
as  simply  wish,  unless  thou  deceivest  thyself  in  thh 
matter,  as  in  so  many  others.  What,  then,  doth 
hold  thee  back  ?  Nothing,  assuredly,  except  that 
thou  wouldst  take  a  path  which  seems,  at  first 
thought,  more  easy,  leading  through  low  and  worldly 
pleasures.  But  nevertheless  in  the  end,  after  long 


Travels  313 

wanderings,  thou  must  perforce  either  climb  the 
steeper  path,  under  the  burden  of  tasks  foolishly 
deferred,  to  its  blessed  culmination,  or  lie  down  in 
the  valley  of  thy  sins,  and  (I  shudder  to  think  of 
it !),  if  the  shadow  of  death  overtake  thee,  spend  an 
eternal  night  amid  constant  torments."  These 
thoughts  stimulated  both  body  and  mind  in  a  won- 
derful degree  for  facing  the  difficulties  which  yet 
remained.  Oh,  that  I  might  traverse  in  spirit  that 
other  road  for  which  I  long  day  and  night,  even  as 
to-day  I  overcame  material  obstacles  by  my  bodily 
exertions !  And  I  know  not  why  it  should  not  be 
far  easier,  since  the  swift  immortal  soul  can  reach 
its  goal  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  without  passing 
through  space,  while  my  progress  to-day  was  ne- 
cessarily slow,  dependent  as  I  was  upon  a  failing 
body  weighed  down  by  heavy  members. 

One  peak  of  the  mountain,  the  highest  of  all, 
the  country  people  call  "Sonny,"  why,  I  do  not 
know,  unless  by  antiphrasis,  as  I  have  sometimes 
suspected  in  other  instances ;  for  the  peak  in  ques- 
tion would  seem  to  be  the  father  of  all  the  sur- 
rounding ones.  On  its  top  is  a  little  level  place, 
and  here  we  could  at  last  rest  our  tired  bodies. 

Now,  my  father,  since  you  have  followed  the 
thoughts  that  spurred  me  on  in  my  ascent,  listen  to 
the  rest  of  the  story,  and  devote  one  hour,  I  pray 
you,  to  reviewing  the  experiences  of  my  entire  day. 
At  first,  owirg  to  the  unaccustomed  quality  of  the 
air  and  the  effect  of  the  great  sweep  of  view  spread 
out  before  me,  I  stood  like  one  dazed.  I  beheld 
the  clouds  under  our  feet,  and  what  I  had  read 


3 14  Petrarch 

of  Athos  and  Olympus  seemed  less  incredible  as  I 
myself  witnessed  the  same  things  from  a  mountain 
of  less  fame.  I  turned  my  eyes  toward  Italy, 
whither  my  heart  most  inclined.  The  Alps,  rugged 
and  snow-capped,  seemed  to  rise  close  by,  although 
they  were  really  at  a  great  distance ;  the  very  same 
Alps  through  which  that  fierce  enemy  of  the  Roman 
name  once  made  his  way,  bursting  the  rocks,  if  we 
may  believe  the  report,  by  the  application  of  vin- 
egar. I  sighed,  I  must  confess,  for  the  skies  of  Italy, 
which  I  beheld  rather  with  my  mind  than  with  my 
eyes.  An  inexpressible  longing  came  over  me  to 
see  once  more  my  friend  and  my  country.  At  the 
same  time  I  reproached  myself  for  this  double 
weakness,  springing,  as  it  did,  from  a  soul  not  yet 
steeled  to  manly  resistance.  And  yet  there  were 
excuses  for  both  of  these  cravings,  and  a  number 
of  distinguished  writers  might  be  summoned  to 
support  me. 

Then  a  new  idea  took  possession  of  me,  and  I 
shifted  my  thoughts  to  a  consideration  of  time  rather 
than  place.  '  To-day  it  is  ten  years  since,  having 
completed  thy  youthful  studies,  thou  didst  leave 
Bologna.  Eternal  God !  In  the  name  of  immutable 
wisdom,  think  what  alterations  in  thy  character  this 
intervening  period  has  beheld  !  I  pass  over  a  thou- 
sand instances.  I  am  not  yet  in  a  safe  harbour  where 
I  can  calmly  recall  past  storms.  The  time  may  come 
when  I  can  review  in  due  order  all  the  experiences 
of  the  past,  saying  with  St.  Augustine,  '  I  desire  to 
recall  my  foul  actions  and  the  carnal  corruption  of 


Travels  3 r  5 

my  soul,  not  because  I  love  them,  but  that  I  may 
the  more  love  thee,  O  my  God.'  Much  that  is 
doubtful  and  evil  still  clings  to  me,  but  what  I  once 
loved,  that  I  love  no  longer.  And  yet  what  am  I 
saying  ?  I  still  love  it,  but  with  shame,  but  with 
heaviness  of  heart.  Now,  at  last,  I  have  confessed 
the  truth.  So  it  is.  I  love,  but  love  what  I  would 
not  love,  what  I  would  that  I  might  hate.  Though 
loath  to  do  so,  though  constrained,  though  sad  and 
sorrowing,  still  I  do  love,  and  I  feel  in  my  miserable 
self  the  truth  of  the  well  known  words,  '  I  will  hate  if 
I  can  ;  if  not,  I  will  love  against  my  will. '  Three  years 
have  not  yet  passed  since  that  perverse  and  wicked 
passion  '  which  had  a  firm  grasp  upon  me  and  held 
undisputed  sway  in  my  heart  began  to  discover  a 
rebellious  opponent,  who  was  unwilling  longer  to 
yield  obedience.  These  two  adversaries  have  joined 
in  close  combat  for  the  supremacy,  and  for  a  long 
time  now  a  harassing  and  doubtful  war  has  been 
waged  in  the  field  of  my  thoughts." 

Thus  I  turned  over  the  last  ten  years  in  my  mind, 
and  then,  fixing  my  anxious  gaze  on  the  future,  I 
asked  myself,  "  If,  perchance,  thou  shouldst  pro- 
long this  uncertain  life  of  thine  for  yet  two  lustres, 
and  shouldst  make  an  advance  toward  virtue  propor- 
tionate to  the  distance  to  which  thou  hast  departed 
from  thine  original  infatuation  during  the  past  two 
years,  since  the  new  longing  first  encountered  the 
old,  couldst  thou,  on  reaching  thy  fortieth  year,  face 
death,  if  not  with  complete  assurance,  at  least  with 

1  This  is  a  reference,  we  may  assume,  to  his  love  for  Laura.  See 
the  note  at  the  opening  of  this  letter. 


316  Petrarch 

hopefulness,  calmly  dismissing  from  thy  thoughts 
the  residuum  of  life  as  it  faded  into  old  age  ?  " 

These  and  similar  reflections  occurred  to  me,  my 
father.  I  rejoiced  in  my  progress,  mourned  my 
weaknesses,  and  commiserated  the  universal  insta- 
bility of  human  conduct.  I  had  well-nigh  forgotten 
where  I  was  and  our  object  in  coming;  but  at  last  I 
dismissed  my  anxieties,  which  were  better  suited  to 
other  surroundings,  and  resolved  to  look  about  me 
and  see  what  we  had  come  to  see.  The  sinking  sun 
and  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  mountain  were 
already  warning  us  that  the  time  was  near  at  hand 
when  we  must  go.  As  if  suddenly  wakened  from 
sleep,  I  turned  about  and  gazed  toward  the  west. 
I  was  unable  to  discern  the  summits  of  the  Pyrenees, 
which  form  the  barrier  between  France  and  Spain ; 
not  because  of  any  intervening  obstacle  that  I  know 
of  but  owing  simply  to  the  insufficiency  of  our  mortal 
vision.  But  I  could  see  with  the  utmost  clearness, 
off  to  the  right,  the  mountains  of  the  region  about 
Lyons,  and  to  the  left  the  bay  of  Marseilles  and 
the  waters  that  lash  the  shores  of  Aigues  Mortes, 
altho'  all  these  places  were  so  distant  that  it  would 
require  a  journey  of  several  days  to  reach  them. 
Under  our  very  eyes  flowed  the  Rhone. 

While  I  was  thus  dividing  my  thoughts,  now  turn- 
ing my  attention  to  some  terrestrial  object  that  lay 
before  me,  now  raising  my  soul,  as  I  had  done  my 
body,  to  higher  planes,  it  occurred  to  me  to  look  into 
my  copy  of  St.  Augustine's  Confessions,  a  gift  that  I 
owe  to  your  love,  and  that  I  always  have  about  me, 
in  memory  of  both  the  author  and  the  giver.  I 


Travels  3 1 7 

opened  the  compact  little  volume,  small  indeed  in 
size,  but  of  infinite  charm,  with  the  intention  of 
reading  whatever  came  to  hand,  for  I  could  happen 
upon  nothing  that  would  be  otherwise  than  edifying 
and  devout.  Now  it  chanced  that  the  tenth  book 
presented  itself.  My  brother,  waiting  to  hear  some- 
thing of  St.  Augustine's  from  my  lips,  stood  atten- 
tively by.  I  call  him,  and  God  too,  to  witness  that 
where  I  first  fixed  my  eyes  it  was  written:  "  And 
men  go  about  to  wonder  at  the  heights  of  the  mount- 
ains, and  the  mighty  waves  of  the  sea,  and  the 
wide  sweep  of  rivers,  and  the  circuit  of  the  ocean, 
and  the  revolution  of  the  stars,  but  themselves  they 
consider  not."  I  was  abashed,  and,  asking  my 
brother  (who  was  anxious  to  hear  more),  not  to  an- 
noy me,  I  closed  the  book,  angry  with  myself  that 
I  should  still  be  admiring  earthly  things  who  might 
long  ago  have  learned  from  even  the  pagan  philoso- 
phers that  nothing  is  wonderful  but  the  soul,  which, 
when  great  itself,  finds  nothing  great  outside  itselL' 
Then,  in  truth,  I  was  satisfied  that  I  had  seen  enough 
of  the  mountain ;  I  turned  my  inward  eye  upon  my- 
self, and  from  that  time  not  a  syllable  fell  from  my 
lips  until  we  reached  the  bottom  again.  Those 
words  had  given  me  occupation  enough,  for  I  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  by  a  mere  accident  that  I 
happened  upon  them.  What  I  had  there  read  I  be- 
lieved to  be  addressed  to  me  and  to  no  other,  re- 
membering that  St.  Augustine  had  once  suspected 
the  same  thing  in  his  own  case,  when,  on  opening 
the  book  of  the  Apostle,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  the 
first  words  that  he  saw  there  were,  "  Not  in  rioting 


318  Petrarch 

and  drunkenness,  not  in  chambering  and  wanton- 
ness, not  in  strife  and  envying.  But  put  ye  on  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  make  not  provision  for  the 
flesh,  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof." 

The  same  thing  happened  earlier  to  St.  Anthony, 
when  he  was  listening  to  the  Gospel  where  it  is 
written,  (i<  If  thou  wilt  be  perfect,  go  and  sell 
that  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  thou 
shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven:  and  come  and  fol- 
low me."  Believing  this  scripture  to  have  been 
read  for  his  especial  benefit,  as  his  biographer 
Athanasius  says,  he  guided  himself  by  its  aid  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven.  And  as  Anthony  on  hearing 
these  words  waited  for  nothing  more,  and  as  August- 
ine upon  reading  the  Apostle's  admonition  sought 
"no  farther,  so  I  concluded  my  reading  in  the  few 
words  which  I  have  given.  I  thought  in  silence 
of  the  lack  of  good  counsel  in  us  mortals,  who 
neglect  what  is  noblest  in  ourselves,  scatter  our 
energies  in  all  directions,  and  waste  ourselves  in  a 
vain  show,  because  we  look  about  us  for  what  is  to 
be  found  only  within.  I  wondered  at  the  natural 
nobility  of  our  soul,  save  when  it  debases  itself  of 
its  own  free  will,  and  deserts  its  original  estate,  turn- 
ing what  God  has  given  it  for  its  honour  into  dis- 
honour. How  many  times,  think  you,  did  I  turn 
back  that  day,  to  glance  at  the  summit  of  the  mount- 
ain, which  seemed  scarcely  a  cubit  high  compared 
with  the  range  of  human  contemplation, — when  it  is 
not  immersed  in  the  foul  mire  of  earth  ?  With  every 
downward  step  I  asked  myself  this:  If  we  are  ready 
to  endure  so  much  sweat  and  labour  in  order  that  we 


Travels  3T9 

may  bring  our  bodies  a  little  nearer  heaven,  how  can 
a  soul  struggling  toward  God,  up  the  steeps  of  hu- 
man pride  and  human  destiny,  fear  any  cross  or 
prison  or  sting  of  fortune  ?  How  few,  I  thought, 
but  are  diverted  from  their  path  by  the  fear  of  diffi- 
culties or  the  love  of  ease!  How  happy  the  lot  of 
those  few,  if  any  such  there  be!  It  is  of  them,  as- 
suredly, that  the  poet  was  thinking,  when  he  wrote : 

Happy  the  man  who  is  skilled  to  understand 
Nature's  hid  causes  ;  who  beneath  his  feet 
All  terrors  casts,  and  death's  relentless  doom, 
And  the  loud  roar  of  greedy  Acheron.1 

How  earnestly  should  we  strive,  not  to  stand  on 
mountain-tops,  but  to  trample  beneath  us  those 
appetites  which  spring  from  earthly  impulses.8 

With  no  consciousness  of  the  difficulties  of  the 
way,  amidst  these  preoccupations  which  I  have  so 
frankly  revealed,  we  came,  long  after  dark,  but  with 
the  full  moon  lending  us  its  friendly  light,  to  the 
little  inn  which  we  had  left  that  morning  before 
dawn.  The  time  during  which  the  servants  have 
been  occupied  in  preparing  our  supper,  I  have  spent 
in  a  secluded  part  of  the  house,  hurriedly  jotting 
down  these  experiences  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
lest,  in  case  my  task  were  postponed,  my  mood 
should  change  on  leaving  the  place,  and  so  my 
interest  in  writing  flag. 

1  Georgics,  ii.,  490  sqq.     The  version  here  given  is  based  upon  that 
of  Rhoades. 

2  It  is  but  fair  to  the  translators  to  note  that  Petrarch's  style  is  at 
its  worst  when  he  falls  into  a  train  of  moralising. 


320  Petrarch 

You  will  see,  my  dearest  father,  that  I  wish  noth- 
ing to  be  concealed  from  you,  for  I  am  careful  to 
describe  to  you  not  only  my  life  in  general  but  even 
my  individual  reflections.  And  I  beseech  you,  in 
turn,  to  pray  that  these  vague  and  wandering 
thoughts  of  mine  may  some  time  become  firmly 
fixed,  and,  after  having  been  vainly  tossed  about 
from  one  interest  to  another,  may  direct  them- 
selves at  last  toward  the  single,  true,  certain,  and 
everlasting  good. 

MALAUCfcNE,  April  26. 

The  Charms  of  Pavia. 
To  Boccaccio* 

You  have  done  well  to  visit  me  by  letter,  since 
you  either  would  not  or  could  not  come  to  see  me 
in  person.  On  hearing  that  you  had  crossed  the 
Alps  to  see  the  Babylon  of  the  West,  worse  than 
the  ancient  city  of  that  name  because  nearer  to  us, 
I  was  in  a  constant  state  of  anxiety  until  I  learned 
of  your  safe  return.  For  I  well  know  the  difficulties 
of  the  route,  having  traversed  it  frequently,  and  I 
thought,  too,  of  your  heaviness  of  body,  and  of  your 
seriousness  of  mind,  so  favourable  to  scholarly  leisure 
and  so  averse  to  the  responsibilities  which  you  had 
assumed.  Worried  by  these  considerations,  I  en- 
joyed no  peace,  day  or  night,  and  I  thank  God  that 
you  are  back  safe  and  sound.  The  greater  the  perils 

1  Sen.,  v.,  i,  written  probably  in  1365,  the  year  in  which  Boccaccio 
undertook  the  embassy  to  Avignon  to  which  Petrarch  refers  below. 


Travels  321 

of  the  sea  that  you  have  escaped,  the  greater  is  my 
gratitude  for  your  return. 

But,  unless  you  were  in  a  very  great  hurry,  it 
would  have  been  very  easy  for  you,  on  reaching 
Genoa,  to  have  turned  this  way.  It  would  have  re- 
quired but  two  days  to  come  to  see  me — whom  in- 
deed you  see  always  and  wherever  you  go, — and  you 
would  also  have  seen  this  city  of  Ticinum,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ticino,  which  I  believe  you  have  never 
visited.  It  is  now  called  Pavia,  which  the  gram- 
marians tell  us  means  admirable,  or  wonderful.  It 
was  long  the  celebrated  capital  of  the  Lombards. 
Still  earlier  than  their  time  I  find  that  Caesar  Au- 
gustus took  up  his  quarters  here,  on  the  eve  of  the 
German  war.  I  suppose  he  wished  to  be  nearer  the 
scene  of  action.  He  had  sent  his  step-son  on  into 
Germany,  where  he  was  performing  the  most  glori- 
ous deeds  of  prowess.  From  here  Augustus  could 
observe  the  campaign  as  from  a  watch-tower,  stimu- 
lating the  leader,  and  ready,  should  one  of  the  re- 
verses so  common  in  war  occur,  to  bring  to  his 
succour  all  the  imperial  forces,  as  well  as  the  majesty 
of  his  own  name. 

You  would  have  seen  where  the  Carthaginian 
leader  gained  his  first  victory  over  our  generals,  in  a 
conflict  during  which  the  Roman  commander  was 
snatched  from  the  enemy's  weapons  and  saved  from 
imminent  death  by  his  son,  scarcely  more  than  a 
boy, — a  striking  presage  that  the  lad  would  himself 
one  day  become  a  great  leader.  You  would  have 
seen  where  St.  Augustine  is  buried,  and  where 
Boethius  found  a  fitting  place  of  exile  in  which  to 


322  Petrarch 

spend  his  old  age  and  to  die.  They  now  repose  to- 
gether in  two  urns,  under  the  same  roof  with  King 
Luitprand,  who  transferred  the  body  of  St.  August- 
ine 1  from  Sardinia  to  this  city.  This  is  indeed  a 
pious  and  devout  concourse  of  illustrious  men.  One 
might  think  that  Boethius  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  St.  Augustine,  during  his  life,  by  his  spirit  and 
writings,  especially  those  on  the  Trinity,8  which  he 
composed  after  the  example  of  Augustine,  and  in 
death,  because  his  remains  share  the  same  tomb. 
You  would  wish  that  your  mortal  remains  might 
have  been  destined  to  lie  near  such  good  and  learned 
men.  Finally,  you  would  have  seen  a  city  famous 
in  the  mouths  of  men  for  its  age.  It  is  true  that  no 
reference  to  it  occurs,  so  far  as  I  can  recollect,  earlier 
than  the  period  of  the  second  Punic  war,  of  which 
I  just  spoke.  Indeed,  if  my  memory  does  not  play 
me  false,  even  in  connection  with  that  period  Livy 
only  mentions  the  river  and  not  the  town.  How- 
ever, the  similarity  of  the  names — the  river,  Ticinus, 
and  the  town,  Ticinum — might  easily  lead  to  the 
confusion  of  one  with  the  other.3 

But  I  will  leave  one  side  all  such  doubtful  matters 

1  It  was  the  body  not  of  Augustine  but  of  Boethius  which  was 
transferred  from  Sardinia.     See  Rashdall's  Hist,  of  the  Universities^ 
i.,  34,  n.  i. 

2  Boethius  was  probably  not  a  Christian,   although  he  was  until 
recent  times  regarded  almost  as  one  of  the  Church  Fathers.     It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  theological  works  attributed  to  him 
are  by  some  other  hand. 

3  This  is  an  interesting  illustration  of  Petrarch's  careful  reading  of 
the  classics.     He  evinces  a  modern  conscientiousness  in  examining 
the  evidences  of  the  city's  age. 


Travels  323 

and  confine  myself  to  what  is  certain.  You  would 
find  the  air  of  the  place  very  salubrious.  I  have 
now  spent  three  summers  here,  and  I  do  not  remem- 
ber to  have  experienced  ever  anywhere  else  such  fre- 
quent and  plentiful  showers  with  so  little  thunder  and 
lightning,  such  freedom  from  heat,  and  such  steady, 
refreshing  breezes.  You  would  find  the  city  beauti- 
fully situated.  The  Ligurians,  of  old  a  notable 
race  and  to  this  day  a  very  powerful  people,  occupy 
the  greater  part  of  northern  Italy,  and  the  city  lies 
in  the  midst  of  their  territory.  Commandingly  situ- 
ated on  a  slight  elevation,  and  on  the  margin  of 
gently  sloping  banks,  it  raises  its  crown  of  towers 
into  the  clouds,  and  enjoys  a  wide  and  free  prospect 
on  all  sides,  one  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  is  not  ex- 
ceeded in  extent  or  beauty  by  that  of  any  town 
which  lies  thus  in  a  plain.  By  turning  one's  head 
ever  so  little  one  can  see  in  one  direction  the  snowy 
crest  of  the  Alps,  and  in  the  other  the  wooded  Ap- 
ennines. The  Ticino  itself,  descending  in  graceful 
curves  and  hastening  to  join  the  Po,  flows  close  by 
the  walls,  and,  as  it  is  written,  makes  glad  the  city 
by  its  swift  waters.  Its  two  banks  are  joined  by 
as  fine  a  bridge  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  It  is 
the  clearest  of  streams,  both  in  reputation  and  in 
fact,  and  flows  very  rapidly,  although  just  here,  as 
if  tired  after  its  long  journey  and  perturbed  by  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  more  famous  river,  it  moves 
more  deliberately,  and  has  been  deprived  of  some 
of  its  natural  purity  by  the  brooks  which  join  it. 
It  is,  in  short,  very  much  like  my  Transalpine 
Sorgue,  save  that  the  Ticino  is  larger,  while  the 


324  Petrarch 

Sorgue,  on  account  of  the  nearness  of  its  source,  is 
cooler  in  summer  and  warmer  in  winter. 

You  would  see,  also,  one  of  those  works  in  which 
you  have  such  an  interest,  and  in  which  I ,  too,  take 
the  greatest  delight, — an  equestrian  statue  in  gilded 
bronze.  It  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  market- 
place, and  seems  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  reaching, 
with  a  spirited  bound,  the  summit  of  an  eminence. 
The  figure  is  said  to  have  been  carried  off  from  your 
dear  people  of  Ravenna.  Those  best  trained  in 
sculpture  and  painting  declare  it  to  be  second  to 
none. 

Lastly,  in  order  of  time,  though  not  of  importance, 
you  would  see  the  huge  palace,  situated  on  the  highest 
point  of  the  city;  an  admirable  building,  which  cost 
a  vast  amount.  It  was  built  by  the  princely  Galeazzo, 
the  younger  of  the  Visconti,1  the  rulers  of  Milan, 
Pavia,  and  many  neighbouring  towns,  a  man  who 
surpasses  others  in  many  ways,  and  in  the  magni- 
ficence of  his  buildings  fairly  excels  himself.  I  am 
convinced,  unless  I  be  misled  by  my  partiality  for 
the  founder,  that,  with  your  good  taste  in  such  mat- 
ters, you  would  declare  this  to  be  the  most  noble 
production  of  modern  art. 

So  if  you  had  come  you  would  not  only  have  seen 
your  friend,  which  I  hope,  and  indeed  know,  would 
have  been  most  agreeable  to  you,  but  you  would 
have  been  delighted  also  by  the  spectacle,  not,  as 
Virgil  says,  of  wonderful  little  things,  but  of  a  multi- 
tude of  great  and  glorious  objects.  I  must  confess 

1  Galeazzo's  rule  was  divided  with  his  elder  brother  Bernabo. 


Travels  325 

that  in  my  own  case  these  objects  are  a  source  of 
supreme  pleasure,  and  would  keep  me  here,  were 
it  not  that  other  interests  call  me  away.  I  leave 
here  shortly,  but  very  gladly  return  to  pass  the 
summer  months — if  fate  grant  me  more  summer 
months.1  .  .  . 

1  The  description  of  Pavia  closes  here. 


V 

POLITICAL   OPINIONS 

RIENZO  AND   CHARLES   IV 


327 


Principum  ac  regum  familiaritatibus  et  nobilium  ami- 
citiis  usque  ad  invidiam  fortunatus  fui.  .  .  .  Maximi 
regum  raeae  aetatis  amarunt  et  coluerunt  me  ;  cur  autem 
nescio  ;  ipsi  viderint  :  et  ita  cum  quibusdam  fui,  ut 
ipsi  quodam  modo  mecum  essent,  et  eminentiae  eorum 
nullum  tsedium,  commoda  multa  perceperim. 

Epistdla  ad  Posteros. 


328 


DETRARCH  exhibits  in  his  letters  a  deep 
and  constant  interest  in  public  affairs,  al- 
beit, like  others  of  his  time,  he  views  political 
problems  somewhat  broadly,  with  a  generous 
disregard  not  only  of  technical  detail  but  of 
human  nature  itself.  He  tells  us  that  his  in- 
tercourse with  kings  and  princes  and  his  friend- 
ship with  noble  personages  was  such  as  to  excite 
envy  in  the  less  fortunate.  His  international 
fame,  seconded  by  his  own  tastes  and  ambition, 
brought  him  into  intimate  association  during 
a  great  part  of  his  life  with  the  potentates  of 
his  day,  not  only  of  Italy  but  of  France  and 
Germany, — even  with  the  Emperor  of  the  East. 
While  he  did  not  actually  participate  in  the 
government,  even  during  his  stay  at  Milan,  we 
find  him  sent  upon  important  public  missions. 
He  prepared  and  delivered  political  addresses, 
and  wrote  letters  to  rulers  and  public  men,  with 
a  hope  of  influencing  their  policy  ;  he  composed 
a  considerable  treatise  upon  the  art  of  govern- 

329 


33°  Petrarch 

ment ; '  he  even  participated,  as  a  consulting 
expert,  in  drafting  a  constitution  for  the  city 
of  Rome. 

Petrarch's  interest  in  political  reform  is  doubt- 
less attributable  in  no  small  part  to  the  patri- 
otic enthusiasm  aroused  by  the  study  of  his 
nation's  glorious  past.  Romans  were  to  him 
but  earlier  Italians.  Scipio  Africanus  was  a 
national  hero  ;  Virgil,  the  great  national  poet ; 
the  Caesars,  the  Italian  rulers  of  the  world.  On 
visiting  Cologne  nothing  so  fascinated  him  as 
the  vestiges  of  his  forefathers.  Moreover,  he 
had  ever  before  him  in  his  fellow-countryman, 
Cicero,  a  literary  spirit  and  philosopher  like 
himself,  who  had  not  hesitated  to  devote  his 
energies  to  public  affairs. 

The  history  of  Italy  under  the  rule  of  their 
Roman  ancestors  took  on  a  celestial  radiance 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  viewed  the  sad  de- 
cline of  their  country's  greatness.  Petrarch 
would,  he  says,  have  preferred  any  age  to  his 
own.  His  sole  consolation  lay  in  the  rooted 
conviction  that  times  were  going  rapidly  from 
bad  to  worse.  He  saw  upon  every  hand  ex- 
amples of  the  terrible  inadequacy  of  the  exist- 

1  Sen.,  xiv.,  I.  Printed  as  a  separate  tractate  in  the  Basle  edi- 
tions, under  the  title  De  republica  optime  administranda.  Opera, 
pp.  372  sqq. 


Political  Opinions 

ing  system  to  yield  even  the  most  primitive 
benefit  of  government, — the  reasonable  secur- 
ity of  person  and  property.  Disorder,  robbery, 
and  murder  were  every-day  occurrences.  When 
he  first  visited  Rome,  his  friends  deemed  a  hun- 
dred horsemen  a  necessary  escort  to  protect 
him  from  the  Orsini  on  his  way  to  the  city.1 
Upon  the  occasion  of  his  coronation  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  King  of  Naples,  who  was  to 
accompany  him,  failed  to  reach  Rome  ;  he  had 
been  captured  by  bandits.2  Petrarch  himself 
was  attacked  as  he  left  the  city,  and  was  obliged 
to  return  within  its  walls.3  The  danger  upon 
the  highroads  kept  him  in  a  constant  state  of 
apprehension  when  he  or  his  friends  undertook 
a,  journey.  Even  the  peaceful  retreat  at  Vau- 
cluse  was  at  last  plundered  and  burned,  and  the 
poet  declared  that  nowhere  was  one  any  longer 
sheltered  from  the  ferocious  robber  bands  which 
moved  about  with  the  precision  of  regular  ar- 
mies, and  which  the  walls  of  fortified  towns 
and  the  arms  of  their  rulers  were  alike  power- 
less to  check.4 

1  Fam.,  ii.,  13  (vol.  i.,  p.  133). 
*  Ep.  Poet.  Lat.,  ii.,  i. 

3  Fam.,  iv.,  8  (vol.  i.,  p.  219). 

4  Cf.   Sen.,  x.,  2  (Opera,  pp.  870-872),  where  Petrarch  describes 
the  sad  change  of  times  since  his  student  days.     The  mercenary 
bands  (grandes  compagnies)  who  wandered  into  Italy  from  France 
were  doubtless  a  prime  cause  of  the  poet's  gloomy  views. 


332  Petrarch 

This  lawlessness  was  naturally  attril 
to  Italian  disunion.  The  subdivision  of 
into  a  multitude  of  practically  independent 
states  and  urban  communities  stimulated  the 
development  of  personal  political  ambition  and 
produced  the  "  age  of  despots."  The  tyrants, 
in  their  struggle  to  maintain  their  power  at 
home  and  increase  their  prestige  abroad,  inev- 
itably resorted  to  the  approved  expedient  of 
the  usurper,  territorial  aggrandisement.  The 
discomfiture  or  subjugation  of  their  neighbours 
became  the  absorbing  object  of  the  foreign 
policy  of  Milan,  Venice,  and  Florence,  and  of 
the  lesser  states  as  well.  Peace,  the  natural 
enemy  of  the  usurper,  was  thoroughly  banished 
from  Italy,  and  a  perpetual  state  of  war  pre- 
vailed. There  were  few  serious,  decisive  con- 
flicts, it  is  true,  but  there  was  an  all-pervading, 
self-perpetuating,  Ishmaelitish  antagonism  be- 
tween the  various  countries,  which  precluded 
all  hope  of  national  cooperation.  "  Servile 
Italy,"  indeed,  "ship  without  a  pilot  I"1 

In  the  face  of  such  evils,  and  hopeless  of  re- 
form from  within,  a  patriotic  Italian  of  the 
fourteenth  century  might  be  pardoned  for  look- 
ing to  a  foreign  ruler,  even  to  a  somewhat 
commonplace  and  unpromising  prince,  for  the 

1  Purgatorio,  vi. 


Political  Opinions  333 

initiative  in  restoring  order.  The  Italians  were 
too  completely  engrossed  by  their  own  complex 
interstate  relations,  and  too  thoroughly  con- 
vinced of  the  absolute  inferiority  of  "  the  bar- 
barians," seriously  to  apprehend  that  foreign 
intervention  might  ultimately  develop  into  sub- 
jugation. History  was,  indeed,  quite  explicit 
upon  this  point.  The  German  emperors  had 
never  been  able  to  establish  their  control  over 
Italy  except  partially  and  for  the  moment. 

Practical  considerations  were  not,  however, 
the  most  fundamental  justification  and  expla- 
nation of  the  Ghibelline  reliance  upon  foreign 
intervention.  The  political  speculation  of  the 
time  shows  clearly  that  theory  was  much  more 
potent  than  the  obvious  necessity  of  govern- 
mental reform  in  fostering  the  imperial  cause. 
The  theory  in  question  was  that  of  the  per- 
petuity of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  with  its  ' 
divinely  recognised  centre  at  Rome.  Even  at 
the  courts  of  the  despots,  whose  practical  sa- 
gacity was  creating  the  first  modern  states 
with  their  elaborate  systems  of  administration, 
Petrarch,  like  Dante,  loved  to  brood,  with  a 
half-mystical,  half-humanistic  partiality,  upon 
that  perdurable  illusion  which  exercised  such 
an  inexplicable  charm  over  the  mediaeval  mind. 
It  was  the  same  craving  for  an  ideal  union  of 


334  Petrarch 

humanity  under  one  consecrated  head  that  led 
Dante  joyfully  to  hail  the  coming  of  Henry 
VII.  In  the  same  great  cause, — the  defence 
of  the  Empire, — Marsiglio  of  Padua,  by  far  the 
keenest  of  the  political  thinkers  of  Petrarch's 
time,  composed  his  extraordinary  treatise  upon 
government  and  the  relations  of  church  and 
state.  Longing  for  the  restoration  of  Rome's 
supremacy,  Petrarch  first  placed  his  hopes  in 
Rienzo,  and  then,  after  the  Tribune's  fall,  sent 
message  after  message  to  Charles  IV.,  King  of 
Bohemia,  the  grandson  of  Dante's  imperial 
hero,  exhorting  him  to  have  pity  upon  Italy 
and  widowed  Rome. 

Mr.  Bryce  calls  Dante's  treatise  on  govern- 
ment an  epitaph,  not  a  prophecy.  Petrarch,  too, 
was  blind  to  the  forces  about  him  which  made 
for  political  progress.  He  learned  nothing  from 
that  race  of  really  great  rulers,  the  Visconti, 
with  whom  he  was  intimately  associated.  More- 
over, the  most  original  and  profound  work  upon 
government  which  the  Middle  Ages  produced, 
the  Defensor  Pads  of  Marsiglio  of  Padua,  writ- 
ten in  1324,  appears  to  have  exercised  no  influ- 
ence upon  him,  and  although  he  confined  his 
reading  to  the  classics  and  the  writings  of  the 
Fathers,  his  political  sympathies  and  ideals  are 
typically  mediaeval.  In  his  treatment  of  these 


Political  Opinions  335 

matters  he  does  not  rise  above  the  current  ar- 
gumentation of  the  Imperialists,  although  he 
re-enforces  his  position  with  a  greater  abund- 
ance and  precision  of  historical  illustration. 


Rienzo  had  found  in  Petrarch  a  sympathetic 
confidant  when,  as  early  as  1343,  upon  visit- 
ing Avignon,  he  had  unfolded  his  audacious 
schemes  to  him.1  When,  four  years  later,  at 
Pentecost,  1347,  the  innkeeper's  son  carried 
out  his  successful  coup  d'ttat  and  got  posses- 
sion of  the  city  of  Rome,  Petrarch  was  en- 
chanted, as  is  shown  by  the  letter  given  below. 
The  immediate  results  of  Rienzo's  accession  to 
power  were  indeed  almost  magical :  order  was 
restored,  the  roads  were  rendered  safe  for  the 
first  time  in  the  memory  of  man,  and  an  Italian 
parliament  was  summoned  to  consider  the 
unification  of  Italy.  The  Tribune's  mani- 
festoes aroused  universal  enthusiasm  ;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  writer's  inflated  and  obscure  style, 
Petrarch  pronounced  him,  long  after  the  spell 
was  broken,  a  most  eloquent  and  persuasive 
orator  and  a  graceful  writer.  Petrarch  seemed 

1  Petrarch's  letter  "  to  a  Friend"  (Ep.  sine  Titulo,  vii.  ;  also  apud 
Fracassetti,  App,  Lit.,  No.  2)  was  doubtless  addressed  to  Rienzo  in 
1343,  and  expresses  the  enthusiasm  which  he  felt  upon  first  meeting 
him. 


336  Petrarch 

to  see  his  own  dreams  realised  ;  the  ancient 
dignity  and  ascendancy  of  Rome  were  re-es- 
tablished ;  the  foreign  tyrants,  as  he  called  the 
Roman  nobility,  including  the  Colonnesi,  had 
been  expelled  ;  the  power  was  once  more  in  the 
hands  of  the  divinely  elected  people  of  Rome. 
Rome  was  soon  to  be  the  head  of  a  unified 
and  rejuvenated  Italy,  perhaps  of  a  redeemed 
Europe.  By  November  Petrarch  was  on  his 
way  to  join  Rienzo.  He  was  probably  actuated 
to  some  extent,  however,  by  his  desire  to  see 
Italy  once  more,  and  to  escape  from  the  re- 
proaches of  his  former  friends  at  the  papal 
court,  especially  of  Giovanni  Colonna,  whose 
favour  he  necessarily  sacrificed  by  his  public 
espousal  of  Rienzo's  cause.  But  upon  his 
reaching  Genoa,  letters  forwarded  to  him  from 
Avignon  brought  the  sad  story  of  the  Tribune's 
fatal  indiscretions.  He  thereupon  gave  up  the 
idea  of  going  to  Rome,  and  contented  himself 
with  addressing  a  sharp  reprimand  to  the  delin- 
quent ruler,  to  whom  he  recalled  the  truth : 
Magnus  enim  labor  est  magnce  custodia  famtz.1 
After  scarcely  seven  months  of  power  Rienzo 
ignominiously  retired  from  the  Capitol  and  fled 
to  the  solitudes  of  the  Abruzzi.  There,  while 
living  the  life  of  a  hermit,  he  was  encouraged 

,,  vii.,  7. 


Political  Opinions  337 

by  prophetic  revelations  to  renew  his  attempts 
to  establish  the  Roman  power.  He  deter- 
mined to  conciliate  the  new  Emperor,  Charles 
IV.,  foreigner  as  he  was,  and  win  him  if  pos- 
sible to  his  fantastic l  schemes.  This  strangest 
of  all  Italian  ambassadors  must  have  reached 
Prague  when  Charles  was  fresh  from  a  perusal 
of  Petrarch's  first  summons  to  him,  which  is 
given  below.2  The  Emperor  listened  curiously 
to  Rienzo's  representations,  but  instead  of 
joining  him  in  a  campaign  for  the  realisation  of 
the  ideal  Roman  Empire  he  shut  up  the  ex- 
Tribune  as  an  enemy  of  the  Church,  and  later 
turned  him  over  to  the  pope  at  Avignon. 
Petrarch  still  sympathised  with  the  unfortunate 
captive,  and  prepared  an  appeal  to  the  Roman 
people  in  his  favour.3  After  a  brief  return  to 
a  restricted  exercise  of  power  as  senator  under 
the  papal  control,  Rienzo  was  killed  by  a  mob, 
October  8,  I354-4 

1  Fantastic  is  the  adjective  applied  to  Rienzo,  even  by  contempo- 
raries. Giovanni  Villani  (xii . ,  90)  says  that  the  more  thoughtful  judged 
that  ' '  la  dita  impreso  del  tribune  era  un  opera  fantastica  e  da  poco 
durare."  The  author  of  the  Vita  di  Cola  di  Rienzo  refers  to  his 
fantastic  smile. 

1  See  pp.   361  sqq. 

'Given  below,  pp.  348  sqq. 

4  The  chief  source  for  the  life  of  Rienzo  is  the  Vita  di  Cola  di 
Rienzo  by  an  unknown  author  (apud  Muratori's  Antiquitates,  and  in  a 
modern  edition,  Florence,  1854).  Gregorovius  gives  a  charming  ac- 
count of  Cola  in  the  sixth  volume  of  his  Geschichte  der  Stadt  Rom. 


338  Petrarch 

Petrarch's  letters  to  Rienzo  do  not  simply 
show  an  absorbing  interest  in  the  attempt  of  a 
national  leader  to  restore  the  ancient  prestige 
of  Rome  and  to  establish  the  unity  of  Italy ; 
they  seem  to  prove  that  there  was  a  funda- 
mental congruity,  a  spiritual  affinity — Wahl- 
verwandtschaft 1 — between  the  two  men,  which 
would  have  made  them  firm  friends  had  they 
been  brought  together.  One,2  at  least,  of  the 
eight  letters  of  Petrarch  to  Rienzo  which  havr 
been  preserved  is  strikingly  free  from  con- 
straint, and  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  the 
poet,  on  his  part,  was  anxious  that  their  rela- 
tions should  be  those  of  cordial  familiarity. 
The  letter  which  follows  gives  us  some  notion 
of  the  widespread  interest  aroused  by  the 
Tribune's  first  acts. 

To  Cola  di  Rienzo,  Tribune  of  the  Roman 
People? 

I  shall  continue  to  write  to  you  every  day,  not 
from  any  hope  of  a  reply, — for,  in  view  of  your 
heavy  and  varied  cares,  I  must  admit  that  while  I 
long  for  an  answer  I  can  hardly  expect  one, — but 
rather  that  you  may  be  the  first  to  learn  what  goes 
on  in  my  mind  respecting  you,  and  especially  that  I 
may  in  this  way  assure  you  of  my  deep  concern  for 

1  Cf.  Voigt,  op.  «/.,  i.,  p.   52. 

8  Var.,  47. 

3  Var.,  38.     Written  in  1347. 


Political  Opinions  339 

your  welfare.  I  clearly  perceive,  in  the  first  place, 
that  you  are  set  on  a  high  pinnacle,  exposed  to  the 
gaze,  the  judgment,  and  the  comments  not  only  of 
the  Italians  but  of  the  whole  human  race ;  not  only 
of  those  who  are  now  alive  but  of  those  who  shall 
be  born  in  all  the  centuries  to  come.  I  realise,  too, 
that  you  have  assumed  a  heavy  but  a  splendid  and 
honourable  responsibility,  and  undertaken  a  task 
at  once  glorious  and  unique.  Never  will  our  own 
generation,  never  will  posterity,  as  I  believe,  cease 
to  think  of  you.  The  speech  of  other  men  is  as  idle 
and  discordant  as  their  fleeting  whims,  but  your 
purpose,  no  whit  less  firm  than  the  Capitoline  rock 
upon  which  you  dwell,  is  one  not  to  be  shaken  by 
every  breath. 

I  know  not  whether  you  are  aware  of  one  thing, 
or,  if  so,  whether  you  have  given  it  any  thought. 
You  must  not  imagine  that  your  letters  which  have 
hitherto  reached  us  have  remained  in  the  hands  of 
those  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  They  are 
promptly  copied  by  everybody  with  such  eagerness, 
and  circulated  about  the  papal  corridors  with  such 
interest  that  one  would  suppose  that  they  came 
from  a  celestial  being,  or  a  dweller  at  the  antipodes, 
rather  than  from  one  of  our  own  race.  At  the 
rumour  of  a  letter  from  you  the  whole  populace 
gathers.  Never  was  an  utterance  of  the  Delphic 
Apollo  interpreted  in  so  many  senses  as  your  words. 
I  cannot  but  extol  your  circumspection  in  maintain- 
ing a  tone  at  once  so  temperate  and  so  free  from 
offence,  and  I  pray  most  fervently  that  you  will 
henceforth  take  greater  and  greater  precautions  in 


340  Petrarch 

this  respect.  Your  words  reflect  the  noble  spirit  of 
the  writer  and  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  people, 
without  derogating  in  any  way  from  the  reverence 
and  honour  due  to  the  Roman  pontiff.  It  beseems 
your  wisdom  and  eloquence  to  be  able  so  to  associate 
things  which  appear,  but  are  not  in  reality,  contra- 
dictory, that  each  is  given  its  due  weight.1  I  have 
noted  how  astonished  some  have  been  that  the  con- 
flict in  your  letters  between  modesty  and  assurance 
resulted  in  so  equal  a  contest  and  so  doubtful  a  vict- 
ory, for  neither  cowardly  fear  nor  swelling  pride 
showed  themselves  in  the  arena.  Men  hesitate,  I 
observe,  whether  to  admire  most  your  deeds  or  your 
words,  since  all  admit  that  for  your  devotion  to 
liberty  they  may  well  declare  you  a  Brutus,  and  for 
your  eloquence,  a  Cicero, — whom  Catullus  of  Verona 
calls  "  most  fluent." 

Continue,  then,  as  you  have  begun.  Write  not 
only  as  if  everyone  were  to  see  your  letters,  but  as 
if  they  were  to  be  sent  forth  from  all  our  shores,  and 
transmitted  to  every  land.  You  have  laid  the  firm- 
est of  foundations,  in  peace,  truth,  justice,  and  lib- 
erty ;  build  upon  these ;  for  what  you  raise  thereon 
shall  be  established,  and  he  who  runs  upon  them 
shall  be  dashed  to  pieces.  He  who  opposes  truth 
shall  prove  himself  a  liar;  he  who  opposes  peace,  a 
turbulent  spirit ;  he  who  opposes  justice  is  himself 
unjust,  and  he  who  opposes  liberty,  arrogant  and 
shameless. 

I  approve  of  your  custom  of  keeping  copies  of  all 

1  Rienzo  found  it  impossible  in  the  long  run  to  reconcile  his  as- 
sumption of  power  with  the  prerogatives  of  Rome's  papal  sovereign. 


Political  Opinions  341 

the  letters  which  you  send  to  various  parts  of  the 
globe,  for  these  copies  are  useful  in  determining  what 
you  should  say  by  what  you  have  already  said,  and 
they  enable  you,  when  it  is  necessary,  to  compare  the 
letters  of  others  with  your  own.  That  you  do  this 
is  proved  to  me  by  the  manner  in  which  you  dated 
your  letter.  Your  magnificent  subscription,  more- 
over, "  in  the  first  year  of  the  Republic's  freedom," 
smacks  of  the  intent  to  begin  our  annals  anew.  The 
expression  delights  and  comforts  me.  And  since  you 
are  wholly  engaged  in  action,  and  until  you  discover 
a  genius  equal  to  the  affair,  I  tender  you,  unless 
God  ..-.*,  my  little  skill  .and  this  pen  of  mine, 
as  Livy  says,  to  uphold  the  memory  of  the  people 
who  rule  the  earth ;  nor  will  my  Africa  disdain  to 
give  place  a  little.  Farewell. 

The  following  letter,  written  some  five  years 
after  Rienzo's  coup  d'dtat,  is  not  only  import- 
ant for  its  references  to  the  ex-Tribune's  re- 
ception at  Avignon,  but  it  enables  us  to  judge 
how  the  whole  affair  appeared  to  Petrarch 
after  his  friend's  disgrace. 

Rienzo  under  the  Protection  of  the  Muses. 
To  Francesco  Nelli? 

What  do  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  now  ? — some- 
thing more  of  the  episode  in  my  last  letter,  which 

1  A  word  is  apparently  missing  here  in  the  MS. 

*  Fam.,  xiii.,  6.     This  letter  was  probably  written  in  1352. 


342  Petrarch 

may  equally  well  have  brought  indignant  tears  to 
your  eyes  or  made  you  laugh  ? '  At  this  moment 
I  certainly  have  nothing  more  important  on  hand, 
although  there  are  plenty  of  trifling  duties.  Indeed, 
lack  of  time  prevents  my  turning  to  more  weighty 
matters,  and  even  what  little  time  I  have  is  not  really 
free,  but  is  filled  with  astonishing  interruptions.  I 
am  in  a  constant  hubbub,  always  in  motion,  run- 
ning here,  there,  and  nowhere.*  This  is  an  ill  that  is 
all  too  familiar  to  those  who  move  from  place  to 
place.  Having  left  Babylon  *  for  the  last  time,  I  am 
now  at  the  Fountain  of  the  Sorgue,  my  usual  port  of 
refuge  from  the  storms  that  overtake  me.  Here  I  am 
waiting  for  travelling  companions,  as  well  as  for  late 
autumn,  or  at  least  for  that  season  when,  as  Virgil 
hath  it,  "  the  shortening  days  bring  a  waning  heat." 
In  the  meantime,  that  my  country  life  may  not  be 
wholly  profitless,  I  am  gathering  together  the  re- 
sults of  past  meditation.  Every  day  I  try  either  to 
make  some  progress  in  the  more  important  writings 
which  I  have  in  hand  or  to  finish  outright  some  one 
little  thing.  This  letter  will  show  you  what  I  am 
doing  to-day. 

Poetry,  a  divine  gift  which  belongs  of  necessity 
to  the  few,  is  now  beginning  to  be  usurped,  not  to 
say  profaned  and  degraded,  by  the  many.  To  me 
there  is  nothing  more  irritating  than  this,  and  if  I 

1  This  refers  to  an  account  of  the  refusal  to  grant  Petrarch  a  papal 
secretaryship  because  of  his  too  elegant  Latin.     See  above,  p.  118. 

2  The  Latin — Nam  et  ego  totus  in  motu,  et  multa  circumstrepunt, 
simulque  hie  et  alibi,  atque  ita  nusquam,  sum — forcibly  expresses 
what  is  often  supposed  to  be  a  quite  modern  experience. 

"/.  e.t  Avignon. 


Political  Opinions  343 

know  your  disposition,  my  friend,  you  will  find  it 
no  less  hard  than  I  to  reconcile  yourself  to  this  un- 
becoming state  of  affairs.  Never  at  Athens  or 
Rome,  never  in  the  times  of  Homer  or  Virgil,  was 
there  such  an  ado  about  poets  as  we  have  now  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhone ;  although  I  believe  there 
was  never  a  place  or  a  time  when  the  knowledge  of 
these  matters  was  at  so  low  an  ebb.  But  I  would 
have  you  smother  your  irritation  in  a  laugh,  and 
learn  to  jest  even  in  the  midst  of  sadness. 

Cola  di  Rienzo  has  recently  come,  or  rather  been 
brought,  a  prisoner,  to  the  papal  curia.  He  who 
was  once  the  Tribune  of  the  city  of  Rome,  inspiring 
terror  far  and  wide,  is  now  the  most  miserable  of 
men,  and,  what  is  worst  of  all,  I  fear  that,  miserable 
as  he  undoubtedly  is,  he  ought  scarcely  to  arouse 
our  pity,  since  he  who  might  have  died  with  glory 
upon  the  Capitol  has  submitted  to  be  imprisoned, 
first  by  a  Bohemian  and  then  by  a  native  of  Limoges,1 
thus  bringing  derision  upon  himself  and  upon  the 
Roman  name  and  state.  How  active  my  pen  was 
in  praising  and  admonishing  this  man  is  perhaps 
better  known  than  I  should  wish.  I  was  enamoured 
of  his  virtue ;  I  applauded  his  design,  and  admired 
his  spirit ;  I  congratulated  Italy,  and  anticipated  a 
restoration  of  dominion  to  the  mother  city,  and 
peace  for  the  whole  world.  I  could  not  disguise  the 
joy  that  such  hopes  engendered,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  should  become  a  participant  in  all  this 
glory  if  I  could  but  urge  him  on  in  his  course. 

1  Namely,  by  Emperor  Charles  IV.  and  Pope  Clement  VI.  Cf. 
Papencordt,  Rienzi,  254,  n.  I, 


344  Petrarch 

That  he  keenly  felt  the  incentive  of  my  words  his 
letters  and  messages  amply  testified.  This  aroused 
me  the  more,  and  incited  me  to  discover  what  would 
serve  to  inflame  further  his  fervid  spirit ;  and,  as  I 
well  knew  that  nothing  causes  a  generous  heart  to 
glow  like  praise  and  renown,  I  disseminated  enthu- 
siastic eulogies,  which  may  have  seemed  exaggerated 
to  some,  but  which  were  in  my  opinion  perfectly 
justified.  I  commended  his  past  actions,  and  ex- 
horted him  to  persevere  in  the  future.  Some  of  my 
letters  to  him  are  still  preserved,  and  I  am  not  alto- 
gether ashamed  of  them.  I  am  not  addicted  to  pro- 
phecy ;  would  that  he,  too,  had  refrained  from  it ! 
Moreover,  at  the  time  when  I  wrote,  what  he  had 
done  and  what  he  seemed  about  to  do  was  worthy 
not  only  of  my  admiration  but  of  that  of  the  whole 
human  race.  I  doubt  whether  these  letters  should 
be  destroyed  for  the  single  reason  that  he  preferred 
to  live  a  coward  rather  than  die  with  dignity.  But 
it  is  useless  to  discuss  the  impossible ;  however  anx- 
ious I  might  be  to  destroy  them  I  cannot,  for  they 
are  now  in  the  hands  of  the  public,  and  so  have 
escaped  from  my  control. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  He  who  had  filled 
evil-doers  throughout  the  world  with  trembling  ap- 
prehension, and  the  good  with  glad  hope  and  antici- 
pation, approached  the  papal  court  humbled  and 
despised.  He  who  had  once  been  attended  by  the 
whole  Roman  people  and  the  chiefs  of  the  Italian 
cities  was  now  accompanied  by  two  guards  only, 
one  on  either  side,  as  he  made  his  unhappy  way 
through  the  people,  who  crowded  about  him  in  their 


Political  Opinions  345^ 

eagerness  to  see  the  face  of  one  of  whom  they  had 
only  heard  the  proud  name.1  ...  In  this  plight, 
as  I  understand  from  the  letters  of  friends,  one  hope 
is  left  him ;  a  rumour  has  spread  among  the  people 
that  he  is  an  illustrious  poet.  It  seems  to  them  a 
shameful  thing  that  one  devoted  to  so  sacred  a  pur- 
suit should  suffer  violence.  The  elevated  sentiment 
that  now  prevails  with  the  crowd  is  the  same  to 
which  Cicero  once  appealed  before  the  magistrates, 
in  favour  of  his  teacher,  Aulus  Licinius  Archias. 
But  I  need  not  add  a  description  of  the  oration,  which 
I  formerly  fetched  from  farthest  Germany  when 
travelling  through  that  region  as  an  eager  sight-seer 
in  my  early  days.  During  the  year  following  my 
return,  in  response  to  the  desires  of  your  friends,  I 
sent  it  to  our  native  city.  That  you  have  it  and  have 
read  it  carefully  I  can  see  from  the  letters  which 
reach  me  from  there.  But  what  shall  I  say  of  Rienzo's 
affair  ?  I  am  delighted,  and  rejoice  more  than  words 
can  tell,  that  such  honour  is  now  rendered  to  the 
Muses,  and — what  is  the  more  astonishing — by  those 
who  are  unacquainted  with  them ;  so  that  they  are 
able  to  save  by  their  name  alone  a  man  otherwise 
hateful  even  to  his  very  judges.  What  more  ex- 
alted prerogatives  could  they  have  enjoyed  under 
Augustus  Caesar,  at  a  time  when  they  were  held  in 
supreme  honour,  when  poets  came  from  all  parts 

1  In  the  portion  of  the  letter  here  omitted  Petrarch  laments  Rien- 
zo's inconstancy  and  want  of  insight,  and  dwells  upon  the  fact  that 
he  is  accused  not  of  having  deserted  a  noble  cause  but  of  having 
dared  to  contemplate  a  free  republic.  The  same  sentiments  are 
expressed  in  the  letter  which  fo  Hows  this. 


346  Petrarch 

to  look  upon  the  illustrious  countenance  of  that 
unique  prince  who  was  at  once  their  friend  and  the 
ruler  of  the  earth  ?  What  greater  tribute,  I  ask, 
could  be  paid  to  the  power  of  the  Muses  than  that 
they  should  be  permitted  to  snatch  from  death's 
door  a  man  certainly  detested, — with  how  much  rea- 
son I  will  not  discuss, — a  convicted  and  confessed 
criminal  (even  if  not  guilty  of  the  offence  of  which 
he  is  accused),  about  to  be  condemned  by  the  unani- 
mous vote  of  his  judges  to  capital  punishment.  I 
am  delighted,  again  I  say  it;  I  congratulate  both 
him  and  the  Muses, — him  upon  the  protection  he 
enjoys,  them  upon  the  honour  in  which  they  are 
held.  Nor  do  I  grudge  an  offender,  reduced  to  his 
last  hope  and  in  such  critical  circumstances,  this 
saving  title  of  poet. 

Yet  if  you  asked  my  opinion  I  should  say  that 
Cola  di  Rienzo  is  very  eloquent,  possessed  of  great 
powers  of  persuasion,  and  ready  of  speech ;  as  a 
writer  also  he  is  charming  and  elegant,  his  diction, 
if  not  very  copious,  is  graceful  and  brilliant.  I 
believe,  too,  that  he  reads  all  the  poets  that  are 
generally  known ;  but  he  is  not  a  poet  for  all  that, 
any  more  than  one  is  a  weaver  who  dons  a  garment 
made  by  another's  hands.  Even  the  writing  of  ver- 
ses does  not  suffice  by  itself  to  earn  the  title  of  poet. 
As  Horace  most  truly  says, 

'T  is  not  enough  then  merely  to  inclose 

Plain  sense  in  numbers, — which  if  you  transpose, 

The  words  were  such  as  any  man  might  say.1 

}  Howes'  version  of  Sat.,  i.,  4,  42. 


Political  Opinions  347 

But  this  man  has  never  composed  a  single  poem 
which  has  reached  my  ears,  nor  has  he  applied  him- 
self to  such  things ;  and  without  application  nothing, 
however  easy,  can  be  well  done. 

I  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  in  order  that  you 
first  might  be  moved  by  the  fate  of  one  who  was 
once  a  public  benefactor,  and  then  might  rejoice  in 
his  unexpected  deliverance.  You  will,  like  me,  be 
equally  amused  and  disgusted  by  the  cause  of  his 
escape,  and  will  wonder,  if  Cola — which  God  grant ! 
— can,  in  such  imminent  peril,  find  shelter  beneath 
the  aegis  of  the  poet,  why  Virgil  should  not  escape 
in  the  same  way  ?  Yet  he  would  certainly  have 
perished  at  the  hands  of  the  same  judges,  because 
he  is  held  to  be  not  a  poet  but  a  magician.  But  I 
will  tell  you  something  which  will  amuse  you  still 
more.  I  myself,  than  whom  no  one  has  ever  been 
more  hostile  to  divination  and  magic,  have  occa- 
sionally been  pronounced  a  magician  by  quite  as 
acute  judges,  on  account  of  my  fondness  for  Virgil. 
How  low  indeed  have  our  studies  sunk !  *  .  .  . 

The  treatment  of  Rienzo  by  the  papal  offi- 
cials at  Avignon  seemed  to  Petrarch  an  insult 
to  the  Roman  people ;  and  he  determined, 
shortly  after  the  prisoner's  arrival,  to  appeal  to 
those  who  had  once  shared  in  the  Tribune's 

1  The  letter  closes  with  a  last  illustration  of  the  prevailing  ignor- 
ance. A  highly  talented  and  well-educated  man  (vir  litterarum  mul- 
tarum  et  excelsi  ingenii)  of  Avignon  gravely  asked  Petrarch  if  a 
certain  person,  who  could  make  a  public  speech  and  write  a  letter 
with  some  ease,  might  not  properly  be  called  zpoet. 


348  Petrarch 

fleeting  glory.  Petrarch's  interest  in  the  case 
may  very  well  be  ascribed,  in  part  at  least,  to 
his  former  friendship  for  Rienzo  ;  his  letter 
is,  however,  chiefly  important  as  illustrating 
his  political  ideas  and  his  highly  fantastic  con- 
ception of  the  Roman  Empire. 

To  the  Roman   People,  urging  them  to  Inter- 
vene in  Rienzo  s  Trial. * 

Invincible  people,  to  whom  I  belong,  Conquerors 
of  the  Nations!  there  is  a  grave  question  which  I 
would  discuss  with  you,  briefly  and  in  confidence. 
I  pray  you  therefore,  I  conjure  you,  illustrious 
men,  to  grant  me  your  attention,  for  yours  are  the 
interests  at  stake.  It  is  a  serious  matter,  a  most 
serious  matter,  with  which  none  other  in  the  world 
can  be  compared.  But  lest  I  should  exhaust  your 
interest  by  delay,  or  seem  to  endeavour  to  give 
added  weight  to  a  matter  that  by  its  very  nature  is 
of  supreme  importance,  I  will  omit  any  introduction 
and  come  at  once  to  the  point. 

Your  former  Tribune  is  now  a  captive  in  the  power 
of  strangers,  and — sad  spectacle  indeed  ! — like  a  noc- 
turnal thief  or  a  traitor  to  his  country,  he  pleads 
his  cause  in  chains.  He  is  refused  the  opportunity 
of  a  legitimate  defence  by  the  highest  of  earthly 
tribunals.  The  magistrates  of  justice  themselves 
reject  the  claims  of  justice,  and  deny  him  what 
has  never  been  denied  to  even  the  most  impious 

1  Ep.  sine  Titulo,  iv,     (Also  in  Fracassetti's  App.  Lit.,  No.  i.) 


Political  Opinions  349 

offenders.1  It  is  true  that  he  may  perhaps  deserve 
to  suffer  in  this  manner,  for,  after  he  had  planted 
the  Republic  by  his  skill,  with  his  own  hands  so  to 
speak,  after  it  had  taken  root  and  flowered,  in  the 
very  bloom  of  glorious  success  he  left  it.  But 
Rome  assuredly  does  not  merit  such  treatment. 
Her  citizens,  who  were  formerly  inviolable  by  law 
and  exempt  from  punishment,  are  now  indiscrimi- 
nately maltreated,  as  anyone's  savage  caprice  may 
dictate,  and  this  is  done  not  only  without  the  guilt 
that  attaches  to  a  crime,  but  even  with  the  high 
praise  of  virtue. 

But  that  you  may  not  be  ignorant,  most  illustrious 
sirs,  why  he  who  was  formerly  your  head  and  guide 
and  is  still  your  fellow-citizen — or  shall  I  say  your 
exile  ?  — is  thus  persecuted,  I  must  dwell  upon  a  cir- 
cumstance of  which  you  may  already  be  aware,  but 
which  is  none  the  less  astounding  and  intolerable. 
He  is  accused  not  of  betraying  but  of  defending 
liberty;  he  is  guilty  not  of  surrendering  but  of 
holding  the  Capitol.  The  supreme  crime  with  which 
he  is  charged,  and  which  merits  expiation  on  the 
scaffold,  is  that  he  dared  affirm  that  the  Roman 
Empire  is  still  at  Rome,  and  in  possession  of  the 
Roman  people.  Oh  impious  age!  Oh  preposter- 
ous jealousy,  malevolence  unprecedented!  What 
doest  thou,  O  Christ,  ineffable  and  incorruptible 
judge  of  all  ?  Where  are  thine  eyes  with  which 
thou  art  wont  to  scatter  the  clouds  of  human  misery? 
Why  dost  thou  turn  them  away  ?  Why  dost  thou 

1  Rienzo  was  accused  of  heresy,  and  it  was  quite  in  accord  with 
the  jurisprudence  of  the  inquisition  to  refuse  him  counsel. 


35°  Petrarch 

not,  with  thy  forked  lightning,  put  an  end  to  this 
unholy  trial  ?  Even  though  we  be  not  deserving, 
look  upon  us,  have  pity  upon  us !  Behold  our  ene- 
mies (who  are  not  less  thine),  for  they  are  multiplied, 
and  they  hate  us  even  as  they  hate  thee,  with  a 
cruel  hate.  Judge,  we  beseech  thee,  between  our 
cause  and  theirs,  unlike  in  every  respect.  From 
thy  mouth  let  our  judgment  go  forth ;  let  thine  eyes 
behold  equity. 

That  one  nation,  or  indeed  that  all  nations,  as 
we  perceive,  should  have  desired  to  withdraw  them- 
selves from  that  easiest  and  most  just  of  all  yokes, 
the  yoke  of  Rome,  need  not  surprise  nor  anger  us, 
since  there  is  in  the  souls  of  all  mortals  an  innate 
love  of  liberty.  Inadvisable  and  premature  this  de- 
sire may  often  be,  and  those  whom  shame  forbids  to 
obey  their  superiors  ofttimes  command  but  ill,  and 
might  better  have  submitted  to  be  led.  In  this  way 
all  things  are  thrown  into  a  state  of  turmoil  and  con- 
fusion ;  and  in  place  of  a  suitable  dominion  we  not 
infrequently  find  an  unworthy  subjection ;  instead 
of  a  dignified  subordination,  an  unjust  authority. 
Were  this  otherwise,  human  affairs  would  be  upon  a 
better  footing,  and  the  world,  its  head  erect,  would 
be  vigorous  still. 

If  this  cannot  be  accepted  upon  my  authority, 
experience  may  be  trusted.  When  have  we  seen 
such  peace,  such  tranquillity,  such  justice,  such  glory 
of  well-doing,  such  rewards  for  virtue,  such  pun- 
ishments for  evil, — when  did  such  order  reign  in 
all  things,  as  when  the  world  had  but  a  single  head, 
and  that  head  Rome  ?  It  was  that  time  which 


Political  Opinions  351 

God,  who  loves  peace  and  justice,  chose  above  all 
others  to  humble  himself  to  be  born  of  the  Virgin 
and  to  visit  our  earth.  To  each  body  is  given  its 
respective  head  ;  so  the  whole  world,  which  the  poet 
calls  "  the  great  body,"  should  content  itself  with 
a  single  temporal  head.  A  creature  with  two  heads 
is  a  monster;  how  much  more  horrid  and  frightful  a 
prodigy  is  a  being  with  a  thousand  separate  heads, 
wrangling  among  themselves  and  tearing  each  other. 
But  if  there  must  be  several  heads,  there  certainly 
should  be  one  which  is  above  the  others  and  controls 
everything,  so  that  the  whole  body  may  remain  at 
peace.  It  is  a  truth  amply  proved  by  innumerable 
experiences,  and  supported  by  the  authority  of  the 
most  learned,  that  in  heaven  and  on  earth  unity 
of  rule  has  always  been  best.  That  God  Omni- 
potent has  willed  that  the  supreme  head  should  be 
no  other  than  Rome,  he  has  shown  by  a  thousand 
signs,  for  he  has  rendered  Rome  worthy,  by  the 
glory  of  both  peace  and  war,  and  has  granted  her 
a  preeminence  of  power,  marvellous  and  unexam- 
pled. 

Although  this  be  true,  yet  if  in  the  past  a  nation, 
following  the  custom  of  the  human  heart,  which 
daily  rejoices  in  its  own  evil,  has,  as  I  have  said, 
chosen  to  embrace  a  harmful  and  doubtful  liberty 
rather  than  accept  the  safe  and  advantageous  do- 
minion of  the  common  mother,  it  may  still  be  par- 
doned for  its  audacity  or  stupidity.  But  who  can, 
without  scandal,  hear  the  question  raised  among 
learned  men  whether  the  Roman  Empire  is  at 
Rome  ?  Must  we  assume,  then,  that  the  Parthian, 


352  Petrarch 

the  Persian,  and  the  Median  kingdoms  remain  with 
the  Parthians,  the  Persians,  and  the  Medes,  respect- 
ively, but  that  the  Roman  Empire  wanders  about  ? 
Who  can  stomach  such  an  absurdity  ?  Who  will 
not,  rather,  vomit  it  up  and  utterly  reject  it  ?  If 
the  Roman  Empire  is  not  at  Rome,  pray  where  is 
it  ?  If  it  is  anywhere  else  than  at  Rome  it  is  no 
longer  the  Empire  of  the  Romans,  but  belongs  to 
those  with  whom  an  erratic  fate  has  left  it.  Al- 
though the  Roman  generals  were,  owing  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  Republic,  often  engaged  with  their 
armies  in  the  far  east  or  extreme  west,  or  found 
themselves  in  the  regions  of  Boreas  or  of  Auster,  the 
Roman  dominion  in  the  meantime  was  at  Rome,  and 
Rome  it  was  which  determined  whether  the  Roman 
generals  merited  reward  or  punishment.  It  was  de- 
termined upon  the  Capitol  who  should  be  honoured, 
who  punished,  who  should  enter  the  city  as  a  private 
citizen,  who  with  the  honours  of  an  ovation  or  of  a 
triumph.  Even  after  the  tyranny,  or,  as  we  prefer  to 
say,  the  monarchy,  of  Julius  Caesar  was  established, 
the  Roman  rulers,  although  they  were  assigned  a 
place  in  the  council  of  the  gods  themselves,  contin- 
ued, as  we  well  know,  to  ask  the  consent  of  the 
Senate  or  of  the  Roman  people  in  the  conduct  of 
the  government,  and  according  as  that  permission 
was  granted  or  refused  they  proceeded  with,  or  de- 
sisted from,  their  proposed  action.  Emperors  may, 
therefore,  wander  about,  but  the  Empire  is  fixed  and 
forever  immovable.  And  we  may  well  infer  that  it 
was  no  temporary  site  but  its  eternal  place  to  which 
Virgil  refers  when  he  says : 


Political  Opinions  353 

While  on  the  rock-fast  Capitol  ^Eneas'  house  abides, 
And  while  the  Roman  Father  still  the  might  of  Empire 
guides.1 

.  .  .  It  was,  however,  also  a  Roman  who 
wrote,  "  All  that  is  born  dies,  and  that  which  in- 
creases grows  old."  Nor  does  it  distress  me  that 
Fortune  exercises  her  prerogatives  in  your  case  as 
well  as  in  that  of  others,  and,  in  order  plainly  to 
show  that  she  is  mistress  of  human  affairs,  fears  not 
to  lay  hands  upon  the  very  head  of  the  world.  I 
well  know  her  violence  and  her  inconstancy.  Still, 
I  cannot  endure  the  idle  boasts  of  certain  unbridled 
nations,  and  the  insolent  conduct  of  those  whose 
neck  long  bore  the  yoke  of  Rome.  To  pass  over 
many  other  outrageous  themes  of  discussion,  they 
raise  the  question — oh,  unhappy  and  shameful  sug- 
gestion ! — whether  the  Roman  Empire  is  at  Rome. 

It  is  indeed  true  that  upon  a  spot  now  covered 
with  trackless  forest  royal  palaces  may  some  time 
arise ;  and  where  to-day  stand  halls  resplendent  with 
gold,  the  hungry  flocks  may  some  time  pasture,  and 
the  wandering  shepherds  occupy  the  apartments  of 
kings.  I  do  not  depreciate  the  power  of  Fortune. 
As  she  has  obliterated  other  cities,  so,  with  no  more 
effort,  if  with  greater  ruin,  she  may  destroy  the 

1  ALneid,  ix.,  448,  449,  as  translated  by  William  Morris.  Petrarch 
here  makes  an  excursus  in  order  to  free  Virgil  from  the  reproach  of 
Augustine,  who  asserts  that  the  poet  mendaciously  promises  (sEneid, 
i.,  278,  279)  the  Romans  an  endless  empire.  These  words,  Petrarch 
points  out,  were  discreetly  put  into  Jove's  mouth,  whereas,  when 
speaking  for  himself,  Virgil  refers  (Georgics,  ii.,  498)  to  res  Romantz 
ferituraque  regna. 


354  Petrarch 

queen  of  cities.  Alas,  she  has  already  partially 
accomplished  this ;  but  she  can  never  bring  it  about 
that  the  Roman  Empire  can  be  anywhere  else  than 
at  Rome,  for  as  soon  as  it  is  anywhere  else  it  ceases 
to  be  Roman. 

This  your  unfortunate  fellow-citizen  has  main- 
tained, and  will  not  deny  that  he  still  maintains ;  and 
this  constitutes  the  terrible  crime  for  which  his  life 
is  endangered.  He  claims  that  his  assertion  is  based 
upon  the  opinion  of  many  wise  men,  nor  do  I  think 
that  he  is  wrong.  He  further  entreats  that  counsel 
and  the  opportunity  to  defend  himself  be  granted 
him.  This  is  refused;  and,  without  divine  mercy 
and  your  support,  he  is  undone;  innocent  and  de- 
fenceless, he  will  be  condemned. 

Almost  everyone  pities  him  ;  there  is  scarcely  one 
who  is  not  distressed  for  him,  except  those  whose 
duty  it  is  to  be  compassionate,  to  forgive  the  erring, 
and  to  feel  no  envy  toward  virtue.  Distinguished 
lawyers  are  not  wanting  here  who  claim  that  this 
same  proposition  can  be  most  clearly  proved  by  the 
civil  law.  Others  maintain  that  they  could  cite 
many  and  weighty  references  in  the  histories,  which 
go  to  substantiate  this  opinion,  if  it  were  only  per- 
mitted them  to  speak  freely.  But  no  one  now  dares 
to  hint  a  word  of  this,  except  in  a  corner,  or  timidly 
and  in  secret.  Even  I  who  write  this  to  you,  al- 
though I  might  not  refuse  to  die  for  the  truth,  if  my 
death  would  seem  to  promise  any  advantage  to  the 
Republic, — even  I  now  keep  my  peace,  and  do  not 
affix  my  name  to  this  present  communication,  be- 
lieving that  the  style  itself  will  suffice  to  indicate 


Political  Opinions  355 

the  writer,  though  I  may  add  that  it  is  a  Roman 
citizen  who  speaks.1  But  if  the  matter  should  be 
considered  in  a  place  of  safety,  before  a  just  judge, 
and  not  in  the  tribunal  of  our  enemies,  I  hope,  with 
the  truth  illuminating  my  intellect,  and  God  direct- 
ing my  speech  or  pen,  to  be  able  to  say  that  which 
will  render  it  clearer  than  day  that  the  Roman 
Empire,  although  long  wasted  and  oppressed  by  the 
attacks  of  fortune,  and  occupied  in  turn  by  Spaniards, 
Africans,  Greeks,  Gauls,  and  Germans,  still  exists; 
that  it  is  at  Rome,  not  elsewhere ;  and  that  it  will  al- 
ways remain  there,  although  absolutely  nothing  of 
that  great  city  should  be  left  except  the  naked  rock 
of  the  Capitol.  I  will  prove,  further,  that  even  be- 
fore we  were  ruled  by  foreigners,  and  while  the  Roman 
Caesars  still  held  the  power,  all  the  authority  of  the 
Empire  was  lodged,  not  in  them,  but  in  the  citadel 
of  the  Capitol  and  in  the  Roman  people.2  .  .  . 

Bear  such  aid,  then,  as  you  can  and  ought,  to  your 
Tribune,  or,  if  that  title  is  extinguished,  to  your 
fellow-citizen,  who  has  merited  well  at  the  hands  of 
the  Republic;  first  and  foremost,  because  he  has 
raised  a  great  and  important  question  which  had 
been  lost  sight  of  and  neglected  for  centuries,  and 
which  indicates  the  only  means  toward  a  reformation 
of  the  state  and  the  ushering  in  of  the  golden  age. 
Succour  this  man !  Do  not  neglect  the  safety  of  one 

1  Petrarch  had  been  made  a  citizen  of  Rome  at  the  time  of  his 
coronation. 

8  Petrarch,  in  the  passage  which  follows,  urges  the  Romans  to 
procure  the  transfer  of  Rienzo's  case  to  Rome,  or  at  least  to  demand 
that  he  shall  be  granted  a  public  audience  and  a  fair  trial. 


356  Petrarch 

who  has  incurred  a  thousand  perils  and  subjected 
himself  to  eternal  despite  in  your  behalf.  Consider 
his  spirit  and  his  purpose,  and  remember  the  former 
state  of  your  affairs,  and  how  quickly  the  advice  and 
efforts  of  a  single  man  excited  a  wonderful  hope, 
not  only  in  Rome,  but  throughout  Italy.  Remem- 
ber how  speedily  the  Italian  name  and  the  glory  of 
Rome  were  elevated  and  purified ;  remember  the 
fear  and  disappointment  of  your  enemies,  the  joy  of 
your  friends,  the  anticipations  of  the  people;  how 
the  course  of  events  was  altered,  how  the  whole 
universe  assumed  a  new  aspect,  and  the  disposition 
of  men's  minds  was  changed.  Among  all  the  revo- 
lutions under  heaven  none  has  been  so  wonderful 
and  astounding  as  this.  For  seven  months,  not 
longer,  he  held  the  reins  of  the  Republic  by  an  effort 
which  in  my  judgment  finds  scarcely  a  parallel  in  the 
whole  history  of  the  world ;  and  had  he  continued 
as  he  began  he  would  have  accomplished  a  divine 
rather  than  a  human  work.  Indeed,  whatever  man 
does  well  is  the  work  of  God.  There  is,  then,  no 
doubt  that  this  man,  who  is  known  to  have  acted  for 
your  glory  and  not  to  satisfy  his  own  ambition,  de- 
serves your  favour.  You  must  blame  Fortune  for 
the  outcome.  If  his  original  fervour  gave  way  to 
a  certain  lethargy,  forgive  this  in  the  name  of  human 
inconstancy  and  weakness,  and  save  your  fellow- 
citizen  while  you  may  from  his  enemies;  you,  who 
formerly  protected  the  Greeks  from  the  Macedonians, 
the  Sicilians  from  the  Carthaginians,  the  Campanians 
from  the  Samnites,  and  the  Etrurians  from  the  Gauls, 
and  that  not  without  serious  peril  to  yourselves. 


Political  Opinions  35? 

Your  resources  are,  I  confess,  no  longer  what  they 
once  were,  but  never  did  your  fathers  show  such 
valour  as  when  Roman  poverty,  which  forms  the 
wealth  of  virtue,  flourished.  Your  power  is  less, 
that  I  do  not  forget ;  but  believe  me,  if  a  drop  of  the 
old  blood  still  flows  in  your  veins,  you  may  yet 
enjoy  no  little  majesty  and  no  trifling  authority. 
Venture  somewhat,  I  adjure  you,  in  memory  of  past 
greatness,  in  the  name  of  the  ashes  and  fame  of  your 
ancestors,  in  the  name  of  the  Empire,  in  the  name  of 
Jesus  Christ,  who  bade  us  love  our  neighbour  and  aid 
the  afflicted.  Have  courage,  I  beseech  you,  above 
all  in  a  matter  where  your  petition  is  honourable, 
and  silence  shameful  and  unbecoming.  If  not  for 
his  welfare,  dare  to  do  something  for  the  sake  of 
your  own  reputation,  if  you  would  still  count  for 
anything.  There  is  nothing  less  Roman  than  fear. 
I  forewarn  you  that  if  you  are  afraid,  if  you  despise 
yourselves,  others,  too,  will  despise  you ;  no  one 
will  fear  you.  But  if  you  once  begin  to  desire  not 
to  be  scorned  you  will  be  feared  far  and  wide,  as 
has  often  been  proved  in  the  past,  and  but  lately, 
also,  when  that  ruler  to  whom  I  refer  was  governing 
the  Republic.  You  have  but  to  speak  as  one ;  let 
the  world  recognise  that  the  Roman  people  has  but  a 
single  voice,  and  no  one  will  reject  or  scorn  their 
words ;  everyone  will  respect  or  fear  them.  Claim 
the  captive,  or  demand  justice ;  one  or  the  other 
will  be  conceded  to  you.  And  you,  who  once  by 
a  trifling  embassy  freed  a  King  of  Egypt  besieged 
by  the  Syrians,  free  now  your  fellow-citizen  from  a 
shameful  prison. 


Petrarch 


Some  two  years  after  Rienzo's  retirement, 
Petrarch  addressed  his  first  letter  to  Charles 
of  Bohemia,  who  already  enjoyed  the  title  of 
King  of  the  Romans,  but  had  not  yet  been 
crowned  Emperor  at  Rome,  as  was  then  cus- 
tomary. While  we  cannot  attempt  to  analyse 
the  anomalous  character  of  this  historically 
important  personage,  it  will  nevertheless  be 
readily  and  justly  inferred  that  little  real  sym- 
pathy could  exist  between  our  ardent  southern 
doctrinaire  and  the  sober  northern  ruler.  Pe- 
trarch was  too  thoroughly  Italian  really  to 
respect  Charles  personally.  He  could  never 
place  unreserved  confidence  in  a  German  from 
the  cold  north,  "where  there  is  no  noble 
ardour  or  vital  heat  of  empire."  l  To  his  fellow- 
countryman,  Rienzo,  he  had  been  drawn  both 
by  the  hope  of  seeing  Rome  once  more  su- 
preme and,  as  we  have  seen,  by  natural  affinity, 
and  a  common  fiery  enthusiasm  for  the  mighty 
lessons  of  antiquity.  Charles  enlisted  his  inter- 
est only  as  the  titular  successor  of  the  Caesars. 
The  vitality,  and,  it  must  be  admitted,  the 
absurdity,  of  Petrarch's  political  theories  are 
clearly  seen  in  his  long  correspondence  with 
the  Emperor.  He  clung  to  his  ideal  with  such 
tenacity  that  he  continued  to  despatch  appeal 

.,  xx.,  2  (vol.  iii.,  p.  9). 


Political  Opinions  359 

after  appeal  across  the  Alps,  in  spite  of  deluded 
hopes  and  disappointments  which  might  well 
have  appeared  decisive.1 

The  letters  shed  little  or  no  light  upon  the 
conditions  of  the  times,  or  upon  the  interrela- 
tions of  the  Italian  states.  We  hear  of  Veii  and 
of  the  Samnites,  but  the  writer  passes  over  the 
more  pertinent  Florence  and  the  Visconti  in 
silence.  In  one  instance  only  does  he  refer  to 
existing  conditions.  The  success  of  Rienzo  is 
cited  with  a  hope  of  rousing  the  King's  emula- 
tion.2 If  Peace  and  Justice  and  their  insepara- 
ble companions,  Good  Faith  and  sweet  Security, 
returned  at  the  call  of  the  Tribune,  how  much 
might  not  justly  be  expected  from  the  spell  of 
the  imperial  name  ?  Charles  was  to  free  the 
Italians  from  slavery,  to  reinstate  justice,  now 
prostituted  to  avarice,  and  once  more  to  bring 
back  peace,  long  fallen  into  utter  oblivion.3  No 
more  complete  or  specific  program  is  offered  ; 
the  poet  satisfies  himself  with  the  constant 
reiteration  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  Rome's 
headship.  This  had  satisfied  many  genera- 
tions of  political  writers  ;  it  is  the  central  idea 

1  The  senselessness  of  anticipating  good  from  the  arrival  of  the 
Emperor  is  bitterly  dwelt  upon  in  De  Remediis  Utriusqut  Fortune, 
book  i.,  chap.  116. 

9  Fam.,  xviii.  (vol.  ii.,  p.  464). 

8  Fam.y  xviii.  (vol.  ii.,  p.  468). 


360  Petrarch 

of  mediaeval  thought,  whether  in  the  field  of 
secular  or  ecclesiastical  political  speculation. 
Petrarch  adds  nothing  to  it,  and  the  chief  in- 
terest in  his  messages  is,  perhaps,  their  con- 
servatism. His  study  of  the  classics  did  not 
modify  but  served  only  to  intensify  the  current 
conception.  For  him  there  was  no  mean  be- 
tween the  traditional  anachronism  of  a  world- 
monarchy  and  the  petty,  unscrupulous,  restless 
despotisms  about  him. 

In  one  respect,  however,  Petrarch  advanced 
beyond  the  fruitless  repetition  of  old  fantastic 
theory,  for  he  viewed  Charles  not  only  as  Em- 
peror of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  but  as  a 
new  Augustus,  a  patron  of  literature.  Upon 
receiving  a  letter  from  his  royal  friend  he  ex- 
claims, "  If  it  was  deemed  a  glorious  thing  for 
Virgil  and  Horace  to  gain  the  notice  and  com- 
panionship of  Caesar  Augustus  and  to  receive 
his  letters,  why  should  not  I,  their  successor, 
not  indeed  in  merit  but  in  time,  and  perhaps 
in  the  opinion  of  men, — why  should  not  I  feel 
justly  proud  to  be  similarly  distinguished  by 
Augustus'  successor  ?  " 1  The  tribute  here  im- 
plied to  the  Emperor's  interest  in  letters  was 
by  no  means  entirely  unmerited.  Petrarch,  as 
we  have  repeatedly  seen,  was  strongly  attached 

.,  xxiii.,  2  (vol.  iii.,  p.  184). 


Political  Opinions  361 

to  the  rulers  of  his  day,  in  whom  he  either 
discovered,  or  quickly  aroused,  a  certain  enthu- 
siasm for  the  new  culture.  They  came  to  relish 
the  society  of  men  of  letters,  and  to  extend  to 
them  their  princely  patronage,  during  the  long 
humanistic  epoch  of  which  he  was  the  herald. 

To  Charles  IV.,  Emperor  August  of  the 
Romans}- 

My  letter,  most  serene  Emperor,  when  it  consid- 
ers its  origin,  whence  it  proceeds  and  whither  it  is 
bound,  is  filled  with  dread  at  the  thought  of  the 
gulf  over  which  it  must  pass.  Born  in  the  shadow 
of  obscurity,  what  wonder  if  it  is  dazzled  by  the 
brilliancy  of  your  splendid  name  ?  But  love  casteth 
out  fear:  it  will,  as  it  ventures  into  the  light  of  your 
presence,  at  least  serve  to  bear  to  you  the  message 
of  my  faithful  affection.  Read,  then,  I  pray  you, 
Glory  of  our  Age,  read  !  for  you  need  fear  no  empty 
flattery,  that  common  affliction  of  kings,  so  irksome 
and  hateful  to  you.  The  art  of  adulation  is  repug- 
nant to  my  character;  prepare  rather  to  listen  to 
my  lamentations,  for  you  are  now  to  be  disturbed 
not  by  compliments  but  by  complaints. 

Why  do  you  forget  us — nay,  forget  yourself,  if  I 
may  be  pardoned  for  so  speaking  ?  How  is  it  that 
your  Italy  no  longer  enjoys  your  watchful  care  ? 

1  Fam.,  x.,  I.  This  letter  may  with  confidence  be  dated  Padua, 
Feb.  24,  1350.  Cf.  Gregorovius,  op.  tit.,  vi.,  341. 


362  Petrarch 

We  have  long  placed  our  hope  in  you,  as  one  sent  to 
us  from  heaven,  who  would  speedily  re-establish  our 
liberty;  but  you  have  forsaken  us,  and,  when  action 
is  most  essential,  you  occupy  your  time  in  lengthy 
deliberations.  —  You  will  perceive,  Caesar,  how 
frankly  I  dare  to  address  you,  though  a  person  in- 
significant and  unknown.  Be  not  offended  at  my 
boldness,  I  beseech  you,  but  congratulate  yourself 
upon  the  possession  of  a  nature  which  can  arouse 
this  confidence  in  me. 

To  revert  to  the  question  in  hand,  why  do  you 
spend  your  time  in  mere  consultation,  as  if  master  of 
the  future  ?  Do  you  not  know  how  abruptly  the  most 
important  matter  may  reach  a  crisis  ?  A  day  may 
bring  forth  what  has  been  preparing  for  centuries. 
Believe  me,  if  you  but  consider  your  own  reputation, 
and  the  condition  of  the  state,  you  will  clearly  per- 
ceive that  neither  your  interests  nor  ours  require 
longer  delay.  What  is  more  fleeting  and  uncertain 
than  life  ?  Although  you  are  now  at  the  height  of 
manly  vigour,  your  strength  will  not  endure,  but  is 
slipping  from  you  steadily  and  apace.  Each  day  car- 
ries you  insensibly  toward  old  age.  You  hesitate  and 
look  about  you  ;  ere  you  are  aware,  your  hair  will  be 
white.  Can  you  apprehend  that  you  are  premature 
in  undertaking  a  task  for  which,  as  you  must  know, 
the  longest  life  would  scarcely  suffice  ?  The  busi- 
ness before  you  is  no  common  or  trifling  affair.  The 
Roman  Empire,  long  harassed  by  storms,  and  again 
and  again  deluded  in  its  hopes  of  safety,  has  at  last 
placed  its  waning  reliance  in  your  uprightness  and 
devotion.  After  a  thousand  perils,  it  ventures, 


Political  Opinions  363 

under  the  protection  of  your  name,  to  breathe 
once  more;  but  hope  alone  cannot  long  sustain 
it.  You  must  realise  how  great  and  how  holy  a 
burden  of  responsibility  you  have  assumed.  Press 
on,  we  exhort  you,  to  the  goal,  with  the  utmost 
speed ! 

Time  is  so  precious,  nay,  so  inestimable  a  posses- 
sion, that  it  is  the  one  thing  which  the  learned  agree 
can  justify  avarice.  So  cast  hesitation  to  the  winds 
and,  as  behooves  one  who  is  entering  upon  a  moment- 
ous task,  count  every  day  a  priceless  opportunity. 
Let  this  thought  make  you  frugal  of  time,  and  induce 
you  to  come  to  our  rescue,  and  show  the  light  of 
your  august  countenance,  for  which  we  long  amidst 
the  clouds  of  our  adversity.  Let  not  solicitude  for 
Transalpine  affairs,  nor  the  love  of  your  native  soil, 
detain  you ;  but  whenever  you  look  upon  Germany, 
think  of  Italy.  There  you  were  born,  here  you 
were  nurtured;  there  you  enjoy  a  kingdom,  here 
both  a  kingdom  and  an  empire ;  and,  as  I  believe  I 
may,  with  the  consent  of  all  nations  and  peoples, 
safely  add,  while  the  members  of  the  Empire  are 
everywhere,  here  you  will  find  the  head  itself. 
There  must,  however,  be  no  slothfulness  if  you 
would  reach  the  desired  result,  for  it  will  prove  no 
small  matter  to  re-unite  all  these  precious  fragments 
into  a  single  body. 

I  well  know  that  novelty  always  excites  suspicion, 
but  you  are  not  summoned  to  an  unknown  land. 
Italy  is  no  less  familiar  to  you  than  Germany  itself. 
Pledged  to  us  by  divine  favour  from  your  child- 
hood, you  followed,  with  extraordinary  ability,  the 


364  Petrarch 

footsteps  of  your  illustrious  father.1  Under  his 
guidance  you  made  yourself  acquainted  with  the 
Italian  cities,  the  customs  of  the  people,  the  con- 
figuration of  the  land,  and  mastered  in  this  way 
the  first  principles  of  your  glorious  profession.  Here, 
while  still  a  boy,  and  with  a  prowess  more  than 
mortal,  you  gained  many  a  famous  victory.  Yet 
great  as  were  these  deeds  they  but  foreshadowed 
greater  things ;  since,  as  a  man,  you  could  not  look 
with  apprehension  upon  a  country  which  had  af- 
forded you,  as  a  youth,  the  opportunity  for  such 
signal  triumphs.  You  could  forecast  from  the  au- 
spicious results  of  your  first  campaign  what  you 
might,  as  Emperor,  anticipate  upon  the  same  field. 
Moreover,  Italy  has  never  awaited  the  coming  of 
any  foreign  prince  with  more  joy;  for  not  only  is 
there  no  one  else  to  whom  she  can  look  for  the 
healing  of  her  wounds,  but  your  yoke  she  does  not 
regard  as  that  of  an  alien.  Thus  your  majesty, 
although  you  may  not  be  aware  of  it,  enjoys  a 
peculiar  position  in  our  eyes. — Why  should  I  fear 
to  say  frankly  what  I  think,  and  what  will,  I  am  con- 
fident, appear  to  you  as  true  ? — By  the  marvellous 
favour  of  God  our  own  national  character  is  once 
more  restored  to  us,  after  so  many  centuries,  in 
you,  our  Augustus.  Let  the  Germans  claim  you 
for  themselves,  if  they  please ;  we  look  upon  you  as 
an  Italian.  Hasten  then,  as  I  have  so  often  said, 
and  must  continue  to  say,  hasten !  I  know  that  the 

1  That  is,  King  John  of  Bohemia,  who  perished  romantically  in  the 
battle  of  Crecy.  He  made  an  expedition  into  Italy  in  1329,  to  which 
Petrarch  here  refers. 


Political  Opinions  365 

acts  of  the  Caesars  delight  you, — and  rightly,  for  you 
are  one  of  them.  The  founder  of  the  Empire 
moved,  it  is  reported,  with  such  rapidity  that  he 
often  arrived  before  the  messengers  sent  to  an- 
nounce his  coming.  Follow  his  example.  Strive 
to  rival  in  deeds  him  whom  you  equal  in  rank.  Do 
not  longer  deprive  Italy,  which  deserves  well  of  you, 
of  your  presence.  Do  not  cool  our  enthusiasm  by 
continued  delay  and  the  despatch  of  messengers. 
It  is  you  whom  we  desire,  it  is  your  celestial  coun- 
tenance that  we  ask  to  behold.  If  you  love  virtue 
(I  address  our  Charles  as  Cicero  addressed  Julius 
Caesar),  and  thirst  for  glory — for  you  will  not  dis- 
claim this  thirst,  wise  though  you  be — do  not,  I 
beseech  you,  shun  exertion.  For  he  who  escapes 
effort  escapes  both  glory  and  virtue,  which  are 
never  attained  but  by  a  steep  and  laborious  path. 
Arise  then  and  gird  up  your  loins,  for  we  know  you 
to  be  eager  for  true  praise  and  ready  for  noble  toil. 
You  will  rightly  place  the  heaviest  burdens  in  this 
mighty  undertaking  upon  the  strongest  backs,  and 
upon  those  in  the  prime  of  life,  for  youth  is  the 
suitable  time  for  work,  old  age  for  repose.  Surely 
there  is  among  all  your  important  and  sacred  duties 
none  more  pressing  than  that  you  should  restore 
gentle  peace  once  more  to  Italy.  This  task  alone  is 
worthy  of  your  manly  strength ;  others  are  too  slight 
to  occupy  so  great  and  generous  a  spirit.  Do  this 
first,  and  the  rest  will  find  an  appropriate  time.  In- 
deed, I  cannot  but  feel  that  little  or  nothing  would 
remain  to  be  done  when  peace  and  order  were  again 
established  in  Italy. 


366  Petrarch 

Picture  to  yourself  the  Genius  of  the  city  of  Rome, 
presenting  herself  before  you.  Imagine  a  matron, 
with  the  dignity  of  age,  but  with  her  grey  locks  di- 
shevelled, her  garments  rent,  and  her  face  overspread 
with  the  pallor  of  misery ;  and  yet  with  an  unbroken 
spirit,  and  unforgetful  of  the  majesty  of  former  days, 
she  addresses  you  as  follows:  "  Lest  thou  shouldst 
angrily  scorn  me,  Caesar,  know  that  once  I  was  power- 
ful, and  performed  great  deeds.  I  ordained  laws, 
and  established  the  divisions  of  the  year.  I  taught 
the  art  of  war.  I  maintained  myself  for  five  hun- 
dred years  in  Italy ;  then,  as  many  a  witness  will  tes- 
tify, I  carried  war  and  victory  into  Asia,  Africa,  and 
Europe,  finally  compassing  the  whole  world,  and  by 
gigantic  effort,  by  wisdom  and  the  shedding  of  much 
blood,  I  laid  the  foundation  of  the  rising  Empire.1 
.  .  .  At  last  the  ocean,  which  I  had  dyed  with 
the  blood  of  both  my  enemies  and  my  children, 
was  subjected  to  our  fleets,  in  order  that  from  the 
seeds  of  war  the  flower  of  perpetual  peace  might 
spring;  and  by  the  work  of  many  hands  the  Empire 
might  be  so  established  that  it  should  endure  until 
thy  time.  Nor  was  I  disappointed  in  my  hopes; 
my  wish  was  granted,  and  I  beheld  everything  be- 
neath my  feet.  But  then,  I  know  not  why,  unless 
it  is  not  fitting  that  the  works  of  mortals  should 
prove  themselves  immortal,  my  magnificent  struct- 
ure fell  a  prey  to  sloth  and  indifference. 

"  I  need  not  relate  again  the  sad  story  of  its  de- 


1  A  page  is  here  omitted  which  briefly  reviews  the  gradual  exten- 
sion of  the  Roman  power. 


Political  Opinions  367 

cline ;  thou  canst  behold  the  state  to  which  it  is  re- 
duced. Thou,  who  hast  been  chosen  to  succour 
me  when  hope  had  well-nigh  deserted  me,  why  dost 
thou  loiter,  why  dost  thou  vainly  hesitate  and  con- 
sider ?  Assuredly,  I  never  stood  in  more  dire  need 
of  assistance,  nor  hast  thou  ever  been  better  placed 
to  bear  aid.  Never  was  the  Roman  pontiff  more 
mildly  inclined,  nor  the  favour  of  God  and  man 
more  propitious ;  never  did  greater  deeds  await  the 
doing.  Dost  thou  still  defer  ?  Delay  has  always  been 
most  fatal  to  great  princes.  Would  that  thou  might- 
est  be  moved  to  emulate  the  illustrious  example  of 
those  who  left  nothing  for  old  age,  but  straightway 
grasped  an  opportunity  which  might  offer  itself  but 
once.  Alexander  of  Macedon  had  at  thine  age  trav- 
ersed the  whole  Orient,  and,  burning  to  extend  his 
kingdom  over  alien  races,  knocked  at  the  gates  of 
India.  Dost  thou,  who  wouldst  only  recover  thine 
own,  hesitate  to  enter  thy  devoted  Italy  ?  At  thine  age 
Scipio  Africanus  crossed  into  Africa,  in  spite  of  the 
adverse  counsels  of  older  men,  and  supported  with 
pious  hands  an  empire  tottering  upon  the  verge  of 
ruin.  With  an  incredible  display  of  valour  he  freed 
me  from  the  impending  yoke  of  Carthage.  His  was  a 
mighty  task,  and,  by  reason  of  its  unheard-of  dan- 
gers, memorable  to  all  generations.  While  war  was 
bitterly  waging  in  our  country  he  invaded  the  land 
of  the  enemy.  Hannibal,  conqueror  of  Italy,  Gaul, 
and  Spain  (who  was  already  contemplating,  in  his 
dreadful  ambition,  the  dominion  of  the  whole  earth), 
Scipio  cast  out  of  Italy  and  vanquished  upon  his 
own  soil.  But  thou  hast  no  seas  to  cross  nor  a 


368  Petrarch 

Hannibal  to  defeat ;  the  way  is  free  from  difficulty, 
all  is  open  and  accessible.  Should  obstacles  present 
themselves,  as  some  fear,  thy  presence  will  shatter 
them  as  with  a  thunderbolt.  A  vast  field  of  fresh 
glory  spreads  out  before  thee,  if  thou  dost  not  refuse 
to  enter  it.  Press  bravely,  confidently  forward. 
God,  the  companion  and  present  help  of  the 
righteous  prince,  will  be  with  thee.  The  armed 
cohorts  of  the  good  and  upright  will  gather  about 
thee,  demanding  to  regain  under  thy  leadership 
their  lost  liberty. 

"  I  might  urge  thee  on  by  examples  of  another 
character,  of  those  who  by  death  or  by  some  other 
insuperable  check  were  unable  to  bring  their  glori- 
ous undertakings  to  an  end.  But  we  need  not  look 
abroad  for  instances  when  such  excellent  illustra- 
tions are  to  be  had  at  home.  Without  search- 
ing the  annals,  a  single  example,  most  familiar  to 
thee,  will  serve  for  all,  that  of  Henry  VII.,  thy 
most  serene  grandfather  of  glorious  memory.  Had 
his  life  been  spared  to  accomplish  what  his  noble 
mind  had  conceived,  how  different  would  have  been 
the  fate  of  Italy  !  He  would  have  driven  his  ene- 
mies to  despair,  and  would  have  left  me  once  more 
queen  of  a  free  and  happy  people.  From  where  he 
now  dwells  in  heaven  he  looks  down  upon  thee  and 
considers  thy  conduct.  He  counts  the  days  and  the 
hours,  and  joins  me  in  chiding  thy  delay. 

"  '  Beloved  grandson,'  he  pleads,  '  in  whom  the 
good  place  their  hope,  and  in  whom  I  seem  still  to 
live,  listen  to  our  Rome,  give  heed  to  her  tears  and 
noble  prayers.  Carry  out  my  plan  of  reforming  the 


Political  Opinions  369 

state,  which  my  death  interrupted,  working  thereby 
greater  harm  to  the  world  than  to  me.  Imitate  my 
zeal,  fruitless  as  it  was,  and  mayest  thou,  with  like 
ardour,  bring  thy  task  to  a  happier  and  more  joyful 
issue.  Begin,  lest  thou  shouldst  be  prevented ; 
mindful  of  me,  know  that  thou,  too,  art  mortal. 
Up,  then;  surmount  the  passes!  Joyful  at  thy  ap- 
proach, Rome  summons  her  bridegroom,  Italy  her 
saviour,  yearning  to  hear  thy  footsteps.  The  hills 
and  rivers  await  thy  coming  in  glad  anticipation ; 
the  cities  and  towns  await  thee,  as  do  the  hearts  of 
all  good  men.  If  there  were  no  other  motive  for 
thy  departure,  a  sufficient  reason  would  be  found  in 
the  opinion  of  evil  men,  in  whose  eyes  thou  canst 
never  linger  too  long,  and  in  the  belief  of  the  good, 
that  thy  coming  cannot  be  unduly  hastened.  For 
the  sake  of  both,  delay  no  longer;  let  the  virtuous 
receive  their  reward  ;  bring  retribution  upon  the  evil, 
or,  if  they  come  to  their  senses,  grant  them  thy 
forgiveness.  To  thee  alone  God  Omnipotent  has 
granted  the  final  glory  of  my  interrupted  purpose.'  ' 


Charles  finally  decided  that  it  would  be  to 
his  advantage  to  visit  Italy  and  receive  the 
imperial  crown  at  Rome.  His  motives,  how- 
ever, had  little  in  common  with  those  which 
are  set  forth  in  the  preceding  letter.  He  ar- 
rived in  Lombardy  in  the  autumn  of  1354; 
and  after  adjusting,  temporarily  at  least,  his 
complicated  diplomatic  relations  with  the 


37°  Petrarch 

states  of  northern  Italy,  he  called  Petrarch  to 
him,  in  the  bitter  cold  of  December. 

His  Audience  with  the  Emperor. 

To  '  *  Lcelius. ' ' 1 

.  .  .  On  the  fourth  day  after  leaving  Milan  I  ar- 
rived at  Mantua,  where  I  was  received  by  the  suc- 
cessor of  our  Caesars  with  a  cordiality  hardly  to  be 
expected  from  a  Caesar,  and  with  a  graciousness  more 
than  imperial.  Omitting  details,  I  may  say  that  we 
two  sometimes  spent  the  whole  evening,  from  the  time 
the  lights  were  first  lit  until  an  unseasonably  late 
hour  of  the  night,  in  conversation  and  discussion. 
Nothing,  in  a  word,  could  be  more  refined  and  en- 
gaging than  the  dignified  manners  of  this  prince. 
So  much,  at  least,  I  know ;  but  I  must  defer  a  final 
judgment  upon  his  other  traits,  in  accordance  with 
the  dictum  of  the  Satirist,  "  Trust  not  the  face." 
We  must  wait!  We  must,  if  I  mistake  not,  take 
counsel  of  the  acts  of  the  man  and  their  outcome, 
not  of  his  face  and  words,  if  we  would  determine 
how  far  he  merits  the  title  of  Caesar.  Nor  did  I 
hesitate  frankly  to  tell  him  this. 

The  conversation  happening  to  descend  to  my 
works,  the  Emperor  requested  copies  of  some  of 
them,  especially  of  that  one  which  I  have  entitled 
Lives  of  Famous  Men.  I  replied  that  the  latter 
was  still  unfinished,  and  that  time  and  leisure  were 

lFam.,  xix.,  3.  The  first  part  of  the  letter,  describing,  among 
other  things,  the  severe  winter  cold,  is  omitted. 


Political  Opinions  371 

necessary  to  its  completion.  Upon  asking  me  to 
agree  to  send  it  to  him  later,  he  met  with  an  ex- 
ample of  my  customary  freedom  of  speech  when  talk- 
ing with  persons  of  rank.  This  frankness,  which  I 
had  by  nature,  becomes  more  pronounced  as  the 
years  go  on,  and  by  the  time  I  reach  old  age  it  will 
doubtless  exceed  all  bounds.  "  I  promise  that  you 
shall  have  it,"  I  answered,  "  if  your  valour  approves 
itself,  and  my  life  is  spared."  As  he  asked,  in  sur- 
prise, for  an  explanation,  I  replied  that  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned  I  might  properly  demand  that  a 
suitable  period  be  granted  me  for  the  completion  of 
so  considerable  a  work,  as  it  was  especially  difficult 
to  set  forth  the  history  of  great  deeds  in  a  limited 
space.  "  As  for  you,  Caesar,"  I  continued,  "  you 
will  know  yourself  to  be  worthy  of  this  gift,  and  of  a 
book  bearing  such  a  title,  when  you  shall  be  dis- 
tinguished not  in  name  only,  and  by  the  possession 
of  a  diadem,  insignificant  in  itself,  but  also  by  your 
deeds;  and  when,  by  the  greatness  of  your  charac- 
ter, you  shall  have  placed  yourself  upon  a  level  with 
the  illustrious  men  of  the  past.  You  must  so  live 
that  posterity  shall  read  of  your  great  deeds  as  you 
read  of  those  of  the  ancients." 

That  my  utterance  met  with  his  ready  approval 
was  clearly  shown  by  the  sparkle  of  his  eye  and  the 
inclination  of  his  august  head;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  time  had  come  to  carry  out  something 
which  I  had  long  planned.  Following  up  the  op- 
portunity afforded  by  my  words,  I  presented  him 
with  some  gold  and  silver  coins,  which  I  held  very 
dear.  They  bore  the  effigies  of  some  of  our  rulers, — • 


372  Petrarch 

one  of  them,  a  most  lifelike  head  of  Caesar  Au- 
gustus,— and  were  inscribed  with  exceedingly  minute 
ancient  characters.  "  Behold,  Csesar,  those  whose 
successor  you  are,"  I  exclaimed,  "  those  whom  you 
should  admire  and  emulate,  and  with  whose  image 
you  may  well  compare  your  own.  To  no  one 
but  you  would  I  have  given  these  coins,  but  your 
rank  and  authority  induces  me  to  part  with  them.  I 
know  the  name,  the  character,  and  the  history, 
of  each  of  those  who  are  there  depicted,  but  you 
have  not  merely  to  know  their  history,  you  must  fol- 
low in  their  footsteps ; — the  coins  should,  therefore, 
belong  to  you."  Thereupon  I  gave  him  the  briefest 
outline  of  the  great  events  in  the  life  of  each  of  the 
persons  represented,  adding  such  words  as  might 
stimulate  his  courage  and  his  desire  to  imitate  their 
conduct.  He  exhibited  great  delight,  and  seemed 
never  to  have  received  a  present  which  afforded  him 
more  satisfaction. 

But  why  should  I  linger  upon  these  details  ? 
Among  the  many  things  we  discussed  I  will  mention 
only  one  matter,  which  will,  I  think,  surprise  you. 
The  Emperor  desired  to  hear,  in  due  order,  the  his- 
tory— or  shall  I  say  the  romance  ? — of  my  life,  from 
the  day  of  my  birth  to  the  present  time.  Although 
I  protested  that  the  story  was  long  and  by  no  means 
diverting,  he  listened  to  me  through  it  all  with  grave 
attention,  and  when,  from  forgetfulness  or  a  desire 
to  hasten  on,  I  omitted  some  event,  he  straightway 
supplied  it,  seeming  often  to  be  better  acquainted 
with  my  past  than  I  myself.  I  was  astonished  that 
any  wind  was  strong  enough  to  have  wafted  such 


Political  Opinions  373 

trifles  across  the  Alps,  and  that  they  had  caught  the 
eye  of  one  whose  attention  was  absorbed  by  the 
cares  of  state.  When  I  finally  reached  the  present 
time  in  my  narrative  I  paused,  but  the  Emperor 
pressed  me  to  tell  him  something  of  my  plans  for 
the  future.  "  Continue,"  he  said;  "  what  of  the 
future  ?  What  objects  have  you  now  in  view  ?" 
'  My  intentions  are  of  the  best,  Caesar,"  I  replied, 
"  although  I  have  been  unable  to  bring  my  work  to 
the  state  of  perfection  I  should  have  desired.  The 
habits  of  the  past  are  strong,  and  prevail  in  the  con- 
flict with  the  good  intentions  of  the  present.  The 
heart  opposes  a  new  determination,  as  the  sea  which 
has  been  driven  by  a  steady  breeze  rises  up  against 
a  contrary  wind."  "  I  can  well  believe  you,"  he 
answered,  "  but  my  question  really  referred  to  a 
different  matter,  namely,  to  the  kind  of  life  which 
pleases  you  best."  '  The  life  of  solitude,"  I 
promptly  and  boldly  answered,  "  for  no  existence 
can  be  safer,  or  more  peaceful  and  happy.  It 
transcends,  in  my  opinion,  even  the  glory  and  em- 
inence of  your  sovereign  position.  I  love  to  pursue 
solitude,  when  I  may,  into  her  own  proper  haunts, 
— the  forests  and  mountains.  Often  in  the  past 
have  I  done  this,  and  when,  as  at  present,  it  is  im- 
possible, I  do  the  best  I  can,  and  seek  such  seclusion 
as  is  to  be  found  in  the  city  itself."  He  smiled,  and 
said,  "  All  this  I  well  know,  and  have  intentionally 
led  you  step  by  step,  by  my  questions,  to  this  con- 
fession. While  I  agree  with  many  of  your  opinions, 
I  must  deprecate  this  notion  of  yours." 

And  so  a  great  discussion  arose  between  us,  which 


374  Petrarch 

I  did  not  hesitate  to  interrupt  by  exclaiming:  "  Be- 
ware, Caesar,  of  your  course !  for  in  this  conflict  your 
arms  are  by  no  means  equal  to  mine.  This  is  a  de- 
bate in  which  not  only  are  you  predestined  to  de- 
feat, but  a  very  Chrysippus,  armed  with  syllogisms, 
would  have  no  chance  of  victory.  I  have  for  a  long 
time  meditated  upon  nothing  else,  and  my  head  is 
full  of  arguments  and  illustrations.  Experience,  the 
mistress  of  the  world,  sides  with  me,  although  the 
stupid  and  ignorant  multitude  oppose  my  view.  I 
refuse  to  engage  with  you,  Caesar,  for  I  should  in- 
evitably be  declared  the  victor  by  any  fair-minded 
person,  although  he  were  himself  a  dweller  in  the 
city.  Indeed,  I  am  so  absorbed  by  the  subject  that 
I  have  recently  issued  a  little  book  which  treats  of 
some  small  part  of  it."  Here  he  interrupted  me, 
declaring  that  he  knew  of  the  book,  and  that,  should 
it  ever  fall  into  his  hands,  he  would  promptly  com- 
mit it  to  the  flames.  I  told  him,  in  reply,  that  I 
should  see  to  it  that  it  never  came  in  his  way. 
Thus  our  discussion  was  protracted  by  many  a  merry 
sally,  and  I  must  confess  that,  among  all  those  whom 
I  have  heard  attack  the  life  of  seclusion,  I  have  never 
found  one  who  advanced  more  weighty  arguments. 
The  outcome  was,  if  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  that 
the  Emperor  was  worsted  (if  it  is  permissible  to  say 
or  think  that  an  Emperor  can  be  worsted),  both  by 
my  arguments  and  by  reason,  but  in  his  own  opin- 
ion he  was  not  only  undefeated  but  remained 
clearly  the  victor. 

In  conclusion,  he  requested  me  to  accompany  him 
to    Rome.       This   request   was,   he   explained,   his 


Political  Opinions  375 

primary  motive  in  subjecting  one  who  held  quiet  in 
such  esteem  to  the  discomforts  of  this  inclement 
season.  He  desired  to  behold  the  famous  city  not 
only  with  his  own  but,  so  to  speak,  with  my  eyes. 
He  needed  my  presence,  he  said,  in  certain  Tuscan 
cities, — of  which  he  spoke  in  a  way  that  would  have 
led  one  to  believe  him  an  Italian,  or  possessed,  at 
least,  of  an  Italian  mind.  This  would  have  been 
most  agreeable  to  me,  and  the  two  words  "  Rome  " 
and  "  Caesar"  rang  most  gratefully  in  my  ears; 
nothing,  I  thought,  could  be  more  delightful  than 
to  accompany  Caesar  to  Rome;  nevertheless  I  felt 
obliged,  for  many  good  reasons,  and  owing  to  un- 
avoidable circumstances,  to  refuse  him. 

A  new  discussion  ensued  in  regard  to  this  matter, 
which  lasted  many  days  and  did  not  end  until  the 
last  adieux  were  said.  For  as  the  Emperor  left 
Milan  I  accompanied  him  to  the  fifth  milestone 
beyond  the  walls  of  Piacenza,  and  even  then  it  was 
only  after  a  long  struggle  of  opposing  arguments 
that  I  could  tear  myself  away.  As  I  was  about  to 
depart  a  certain  Tuscan  soldier  in  the  imperial 
guards  took  me  by  the  hand,  and,  turning  to  the 
Emperor,  addressed  him  in  a  bold  but  solemn  voice. 

Here  is  he,"  he  said,  "  of  whom  I  have  often 
spoken  to  you.  If  you  shall  do  anything  worthy 
of  praise,  he  will  not  allow  your  name  to  be  silently 
forgotten ;  otherwise,  he  will  know  when  to  speak 
and  when  to  keep  his  peace." 

But  to  return  to  our  first  subject.1     I  do  not,  as 

1  The  rumour  had  reached  Laelius  that  Petrarch  had  been  deputed 
by  the  Milanese  government  to  negotiate  a  peace  with  Charles. 


376  Petrarch 

you  can  see,  repudiate  the  honour  you  ascribe  to 
me,  because  it  is  distasteful,  but  because  truth  is 
dearer  to  me  than  all  else.  I  did  not  negotiate  the 
peace,  though  I  ardently  desired  it ;  I  was  not  de- 
puted to  bring  it  about,  but  only  aided  with  exhor- 
tations and  words  of  encouragement.  I  was  not 
present  at  the  beginning  but  only  at  the  close,  since 
Caesar  and  my  good  fortune  decreed  my  presence  at 
the  solemn  public  ratification  of  the  treaty  which 
followed  its  conclusion. 

Assuredly  no  Italian  has  ever  received  such  tributes 
as  I  have  at  this  juncture.  I  have  been  summoned 
by  Caesar  and  urged  to  be  his  companion ;  I  have 
been  permitted  to  jest  and  argue  with  him.  The 
tyrant  Dionysius,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  once  sent  a  ship 
covered  with  garlands  to  fetch  Plato,  the  disciple  of 
wisdom;  and  as  he  disembarked  he  was  received 
upon  the  shore  by  the  prince  himself,  in  a  chariot 
drawn  by  four  white  horses.  These  things  are  spoken 
of  as  magnificent  tributes  to  Plato,  and  as  redound- 
ing to  his  glory.  You  see  now,  my  dear  Laelius, 
whither  I  am  tending,  and  that  I  omit  no  oppor- 
tunity which  promises  distinction.  What  might  I 
not  venture,  who  do  not  fear  to  compare  myself  to 
Plato  ? 


The  hasty,  undignified  retreat  of  Charles 
from  Italy,  and  the  bitter  reproaches  which 
Petrarch  sent  after  him,  did  not  prevent  a  re- 

1  The  closing  paragraph  is  omitted. 


Political  Opinions  377 

sumption  of  the  intercourse  begun  in  I35O.1  A 
year  after  the  Emperor's  departure  Petrarch 
went  to  Prague,  as  ambassador  of  the  Visconti, 
but  we  hear  no  particulars  of  his  sojourn  at 
that  new  centre  of  culture.  In  a  letter  written 
after  this  visit  we  find  the  graceful  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  gift  of  a  golden  cup  from  the 
Emperor,  who  continued  to  urge  the  poet  to 
make  his  home  in  Prague.  Petrarch  at  last 
reluctantly  prepared  to  obey  the  summons,  but 
was  happily  prevented  by  the  military  occu- 
pation of  the  Alpine  passes  from  undertaking 
a  journey  which  he  little  relished.  He  con- 
tinued to  press  the  return  of  the  Emperor  as 
Italy's  saviour  until,  finally,  "  hoarse  "  with  re- 
peated cries  for  help,  he  sent  his  last  vain  ap- 
peal,2 some  ten  years  after  Charles'  departure. 

1  Fourteen  letters  to  Charles  are  preserved  in  all. 

2  Fam.,  xxiii.,  21. 


VI 

THE  CONFLICT  OF  MONASTIC  AND 
SECULAR  IDEALS 


379 


Non  sumus  aut  exhortatione  virtutis  aut  vicinse  mortis 
obtentu  a  litteris  deterendi. — Sen.,  i.,  4. 


380 


THE  tendencies  toward  Paganism  which 
the  enthusiastic  and  exclusive  study  of 
the  ancient  classics  produced  among  the  Ital- 
ian Humanists  of  the  fifteenth  century  are  so 
well  known  that  it  is  natural  to  ask  what  was 
the  attitude  of  the  founder  of  Humanism  to- 
ward the  generally  accepted  religious  beliefs 
of  his  day. 

The  question  of  the  propriety  of  reading 
pagan  works  had  agitated  the  Church  from  the 
first,  and  the  views  of  the  devout  had  varied 
greatly.  There  had  always  been  distinguished 
leaders,  like  Augustine,  who  made  due  use  of 
pagan  learning  and  eloquence,  and  defended  a 
discriminating  study  of  the  heathen  writers ; 
while  others,  among  whom  Gregory  the  Great 
was  preeminent,  had  harshly  condemned  "  the 
idle  vanities  of  secular  learning,"  for  the  rea- 
son "that  the  same  mouth  singeth  not  the 
praises  of  Jove  and  the  praises  of  Christ." 
Many  timid  churchmen  were  fearful,  like  Jack 

l£p.,ix.,  54. 

381 


382  Petrarch 

Cade,  of  those  who  talked  of  "  a  noun  and 
a  verb  and  such  abominable  words  as  no 
Christian  can  endure  to  hear."  In  short,  the 
effects  produced  upon  the  religious  convictions 
by  a  study  of  Plato,  Aristotle,  Cicero,  Seneca, 
and  Lucretius  have  always  varied  with  the 
mental  make-up,  the  maturity  and  surround- 
ings, of  the  individual,  just  as  nowadays  a 
study  of  science  may  or  may  not  influence  the 
faith  of  the  believer.  In  notable  instances, 
scientific  pursuits  not  only  leave  the  student's 
religious  system  essentially  unimpaired  but 
may  even  serve  to  fortify  a  traditional  form  of 
theology.  On  the  other  hand,  an  absorbing 
interest  in  scientific  investigation  often  pro- 
duces religious  indifference.  In  still  other 
minds  such  research  will  arouse  opposition  to 
what  comes  to  seem  to  them  a  vicious  and  de- 
graded form  of  superstition.  This  opposition 
will  vary  from  dignified  but  uncompromising 
negation  to  a  frantic  belligerency  not  unlike 
that  of  the  ecclesiastical  opponents  of  "  poetry  " 
in  the  middle  ages. 

Turning  to  PetVarch,  we  may  at  first  be 
tempted  to  infer  that  his  religious  beliefs  were 
in  no  way  affected  by  his  sympathetic  study  of 
pagan  literature.  His  writings  prove  beyond 
a  peradventure  that  he  was  a  devout  Catholic, 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      383 

even  an  ardent  defender  of  orthodoxy.  He 
composed  several  devotional  works,  unim- 
peachably  sound  in  their  teaching,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  tract  upon  True  Wisdom,  and  his 
Penitential  Psalms.  He  was  deeply  incensed 
by  the  defection  of  the  young  men  who  ac- 
cepted the  doctrines  of  Averroes,  and  prepared 
a  refutation  of  their  heresies,  as  we  have  seen.1 
And  he  was  no  exception  to  the  rule,  for  there 
were  few,  if  any,  among  the  first  generation  of 
Humanists  who  affected  the  paganism  charac- 
teristic of  the  later  Renaissance.2  But  Petrarch 
not  only  refused  to  question  the  authority  of 
the  Church  ;  he  went  much  farther,  and,  in 
theory  at  least,  heartily  accepted  the  prevalent 
ascetic  ideals.  He  freely  acknowledges  the 
superior  perfection  of  the  monastic  life  ;  it  is, 
he  feels,  the  only  sure  road  to  Heaven.  In 
writing  to  Gherardo,  who  had  become  a  Car- 
thusian monk,  he  begs  him  not  to  despair  of 
his  salvation  although  he  still  remains  in  the 
world.  His  sins,  however  great,  are  still  finite, 
while  the  divine  clemency  upon  which  he  relies 
is  boundless.3 

But  such  reflections  as  fill  the  letter  from 

1  /.  e.,  De  Suiipsius  et  Multorum  Ignorantia.     See  above,  pp.  215, 
216. 

1  Cf.  Pastor,  Geschichte  der  Pdpste,  vol.  i.,  p.  I  sqq. 
3  Fam.)  x.,  3. 


3^4  Petrarch 

which  we  quote  are,  the  writer  explicitly  tells 
us,  not  his  own,  for  it  is  the  pen  of  another 
self,  a  "  monastic  pen,"  which  records  them. 
He  speaks  truly ;  he  had  no  real  love  for  a 
consistent  life  of  seclusion  and  maceration,  yet 
when  his  spirit  was  heavy,  when  the  vanity  of 
earthly  ambition  was  more  than  usually  op- 
pressive, he  might  long  for  the  irresponsible 
(routine  of  the  monastery.  Sometimes,  too, 
^he  seems  unconsciously  to  have  confused  a 
^scholar's  desire  for  leisure  and  retirement  with 
jhe  quite  different  claims  of  the  cloister.1 

The  following  letter  to  Boccaccio  explains 
itself. 

Religion  does  not  Require  us  to   Give  up 
Literature. 

To  Boccaccio* 

Your  letter,  my  brother,  filled  me  with  the  sad- 
dest forebodings.  As  I  ran  through  it  amazement 
and  profound  grief  struggled  for  the  supremacy  in 
my  heart,  but  when  I  had  finished,  both  gave  way 
to  other  feelings.  As  long  as  I  was  ignorant  of  the 
facts,  and  attended  only  to  the  words,  how  indeed 
could  I  read,  with  dry  eyes,  of  your  tears  and  ap 

1  Once,  upon  his  return  from  a  visit  to  the  Carthusian  monastery 
which  Gherardo  had  selected,  Petrarch  wrote  a  eulogy  of  monastic 
life,  De  Otio  Religiosorum^  which  may  be  found  among  his  works. 

*&».,!.,  4. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      385 

preaching  death  ?  For  at  first  glance  I  quite  failed 
to  see  the  real  state  of  affairs.  A  little  thought, 
however,  served  to  put  me  in  quite  a  different  frame 
of  mind,  and  to  banish  both  grief  and  surprise. 

But  before  I  proceed  I  must  touch  upon  the 
matter  to  which  you  refer  in  the  earlier  part  of  your 
letter.  You  dare  not  deprecate,  you  say  with  the 
utmost  deference,  the  plan  of  your  illustrious  master 
— as  you  too  humbly  call  me — for  migrating  to  Ger- 
many, or  far-off  Sarmatia  (I  quote  your  words), 
carrying  with  me,  as  you  would  have  it,  all  the 
Muses,  and  Helicon  itself,  as  if  I  deemed  the  Italians 
unworthy  longer  to  enjoy  my  presence  or  the  fruits 
of  my  labour.  You  well  know,  however,  that  I 
have  never  been  other  than  an  obscure  and  lowly 
dweller  on  Helicon,  and  that  I  have  been  so  dis- 
tracted by  outside  cares  as  to  have  become  by  this 
time  almost  an  exile.  I  must  admit  that  your 
method  of  holding  me  back  from  such  a  venture  is 
more  efficacious  than  a  flood  of  satirical  eloquence 
would  have  been.  I  am  much  gratified  by  such 
tokens  of  your  esteem,  and  by  the  keen  interest  you 
exhibit.  I  should  much  prefer  to  see  signs  of  ex- 
aggerated apprehension  on  your  part  (omnia  tuta 
timens,  as  Virgil  says)  than  any  suggestion  of 
waning  affection. 

I  have  no  desire  to  conceal  any  of  my  plans  from 
you,  dear  friend,  and  will  freely  tell  you  the  whole 
secret  of  my  poor  wounded  heart.  I  can  never  see 
enough  of  this  land  of  Italy ;  but,  by  Hercules !  I  am 
so  utterly  disgusted  with  Italian  affairs  that,  as  I 
recently  wrote  to  our  Simonides,  I  must  confess  that 

as 


386  Petrarch 

I  have  sometimes  harboured  the  idea  of  betaking 
myself — not  to  Germany,  certainly,  but  to  some 
secluded  part  of  the  world.  There  I  might  hope  to 
escape  this  eternal  hubbub,  as  well  as  the  storms  of 
jealousy  to  which  I  am  exposed  not  so  much  by  my 
lot  in  life  (which  to  my  thinking  might  rather  excite 
contempt  than  envy)  as  by  a  certain  renown  which 
I  have  acquired  in  some  way  or  other.  Thus  se- 
cluded I  should  have  done  what  I  could  to  live 
an  upright  life  and  die  a  righteous  death.  This 
design  I  should  have  carried  out  had  not  fortune 
prevented.  But  as  to  turning  my  thoughts  north- 
ward, that  was  by  no  means  done  with  the  intention 
which  you  imagine.  I  did  not  think  of  seeking  re- 
pose in  that  barbarous  and  uninviting  land,  with  its 
inclement  sky.  I  was  only  submitting,  from  mo- 
tives of  respect  and  propriety,  to  the  solicitations  of 
our  Emperor,  who  had  repeatedly  urged  me  to  come 
and  see  him,  with  such  insistence  that  my  refusal  to 
visit  him,  for  a  short  time  at  least,  might  have  been 
regarded  as  an  exhibition  of  pride  and  rebellion,  or 
even  as  a  species  of  sacrilege.  For,  as  you  have 
read  in  Valerius,  our  ancestors  were  wont  to  regard 
those  who  could  not  venerate  princes  as  capable  of 
any  form  of  crime.  But  you  may  dismiss  your  fears, 
and  cease  your  laments ;  for — to  my  not  very  great 
regret — I  have  found  this  road,  too,  blocked  by  war. 
Anomalously  enough,  I  am  glad  not  to  go  where  I 
should  with  even  greater  gladness  have  gone  if  I 
had  been  able.  To  have  wished  to  go  is  enough 
to  satisfy  both  my  ruler's  desires  and  my  own 
scruples ;  for  the  rest  fortune  was  responsible. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      387 

Leaving  this  matter,  I  come  back  to  that  part  of 
your  letter  which  so  affected  me  on  first  reading. 
You  say  that  a  certain  Peter,  a  native  of  Sienna, 
noted  for  his  piety  and  for  the  miracles  which  he 
performed,  has  recently  died ;  that  on  his  death- 
bed, among  many  predictions  relating  to  various 
persons,  he  had  something  to  say  of  both  of  us;  and 
that,  moreover,  he  sent  a  messenger  to  you  to  com- 
municate his  last  words.  When  you  inquired  how 
this  holy  man,  of  whom  we  had  never  heard,  hap- 
pened to  know  so  much  about  us,  the  messenger 
replied  that  the  deceased  had,  it  is  understood, 
undertaken  a  certain  work  of  piety ;  but  when,  hav- 
ing been  told  as  I  surmise  that  death  was  near,  he 
saw  himself  unable  to  accomplish  his  proposed  mis- 
sion, he  prayed  a  prayer  of  great  efficacy,  which 
could  not  fail  to  make  its  way  to  Heaven,  that  proper 
substitutes  might  be  designated,  who  should  bring 
to  a  successful  close  the  chosen  task  which  it  was 
not  the  will  of  God  that  he  himself  should  complete. 
With  that  intimacy  of  intercourse  which  exists  be- 
tween God  and  the  soul  of  the  just,  Heaven  ordained 
that  he  should  see  Christ  in  person,  and  thus  know 
that  his  petition  had  been  heard  and  granted.  And 
in  Christ's  face  it  was  conceded  to  him  to  read  "  the 
things  that  are,  the  things  that  have  been,  and  the 
things  that  are  to  come, ' '  not  as  Proteus  does  in  Vir- 
gil, but  far  more  perfectly,  clearly,  and  fully;  for 
what  could  escape  one  who  was  permitted  to  look 
upon  the  face  of  him  to  whom  all  things  owe  their 
being  ? 

It  is  certainly  a  most  astounding  thing,  this  seeing 


388  Petrarch 

Christ  with  mortal  eyes,  if  only  it  be  true.  For  it  is 
an  old  and  much-used  device,  to  drape  one's  own 
lying  inventions  with  the  veil  of  religion  and  sanctity, 
in  order  to  give  the  appearance  of  divine  sanction  to 
human  fraud.  But  I  cannot  pronounce  upon  this 
case  at  present,  nor  until  the  messenger  of  the  de- 
ceased presents  himself  to  me  in  person.  For  you 
tell  me  that  he  visited  you  first  because  you  were 
nearest,  and,  having  delivered  his  message,  departed 
for  Naples,  intending  to  go  thence  by  sea  to  France 
and  England,  and  lastly  to  visit  me  and  impart  such 
of  his  instructions  as  related  to  my  case.  I  can  then 
see  for  myself  how  much  faith  he  succeeds  in  arous- 
ing in  me.  I  shall  closely  interrogate  everything 
about  him, — his  age,  face,  eyes,  dress,  bearing,  gait, 
even  his  tone  of  voice,  movements,  style  of  address, 
and,  above  all,  his  apparent  object  and  the  upshot 
of  his  discourse. 

The  gist  of  the  whole  matter  is  then,  as  I  infer,  that 
the  holy  man  as  he  was  dying  had  a  vision  of  us 
two,  and  along  with  us  of  several  others  as  well,  and 
intrusted  certain  secret  messages  for  us  all  to  this 
zealous  and,  as  he  seems  to  you,  faithful  executor  of 
his  last  wishes.  Now  what  messages  the  other  per- 
sons may  have  received  we  do  not  know.  But  you 
yourself  received  the  following  communications, 
both  relating  to  the  general  course  and  conduct  of 
your  life.  If  there  were  others  you  suppress  them. 
You  were  first  informed  that  your  life  is  approach- 
ing its  end,  and  that  but  a  few  years  remain  to  you.1 
Secondly,  you  were  bidden  to  renounce  the  study  of 

1  Boccaccio  at  this  time  was  about  fifty-one  years  old. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      389 

poetry.  Hence  your  consternation  and  sorrow, 
which  I  shared  at  first  as  I  read,  but  which  a  little 
reflection  served  to  efface,  as  it  will  in  your  case  too, 
if  you  will  but  lend  me  your  ears,  or  listen  to  the 
utterances  of  your  own  better  reason.  You  will  see 
that,  instead  of  being  a  source  of  grief,  the  message 
ought  to  give  you  joy. 

I  do  not  belittle  the  authority  of  prophecy.  What 
comes  to  us  from  Christ  must  indeed  be  true.  Truth 
itself  cannot  lie.  But  I  venture  to  question  whether 
Christ  was  the  author  of  this  particular  prophecy, 
whether  it  may  not  be,  as  often  happens,  a  fabrica- 
tion attributed  to  him  in  order  to  insure  its  accept- 
ance. And  what  of  the  fact  that  similar  phenomena 
have  been  recorded  among  those  who  are  quite 
ignorant  of  his  name?  If  we  may  believe  the  pagan 
poets  and  philosophers,  it  was  not  at  all  unusual  for 
dying  men  to  utter  prophecies ;  both  the  Greek  liter- 
ature and  our  own  mention  many  such  instances. 
Note,  for  example,  that  Homer  makes  Hector  fore- 
tell the  death  of  Achilles ;  Virgil  tells  us  how  Orodes 
warns  Mezentius  of  his  doom ;  Cicero  mentions  the 
same  prophetic  power  in  the  cases  of  Theramenes, 
who  foresaw  the  death  of  Critias,  and  of  Calanus, 
who  foretold  that  of  Alexander.  Another  example, 
more  like  that  which  troubles  you,  is  mentioned  by 
Posidonius,  the  most  celebrated  philosopher  of  his 
time.  He  tells  us  of  a  certain  inhabitant  of  Rhodes 
who,  on  his  death-bed,  indicated  six  of  his  con- 
temporaries who  were  shortly  to  follow  him  to  the 
grave;  and,  what  is  more,  he  actually  foretold  the 
order  in  which  those  people  would  die.  This  is  not 


39°  Petrarch 

the  place  to  consider  either  the  authenticity  or  the 
explanation  of  such  cases.  Suppose,  though,  that 
we  do  grant  their  trustworthiness,  as  well  as  that  of 
other  similar  prophecies  which  are  reported  to  us, 
including  the  one  by  which  you  have  recently  been 
terrified ;  what  is  there,  after  all,  which  need  fill  you 
with  such  apprehension  ?  We  are  usually  indifferent 
to  those  things  with  which  we  are  familiar,  and  are 
excited  and  disturbed  only  by  the  unexpected.  Did 
you  not  know  well  enough,  without  hearing  it  from 
this  man,  that  you  had  but  a  short  span  of  life  be- 
fore you  ?  .  .  .' 

I  might  commend  to  you,  in  your  perplexity,  the 
reflections  of  Virgil,8  as  not  only  helpful  but  as 
the  only  advice  to  be  followed  at  this  juncture,  were 
it  not  that  I  wished  to  spare  the  ears  of  one  to  whom 
poetry  is  absolutely  forbidden.  This  prohibition 
filled  me  with  much  more  astonishment  than  the 
first  part  of  the  dying  man's  message.  If  it  had 
been  addressed  to  an  old  man  who  was,  so  to  speak, 
just  learning  his  letters,  I  might  have  put  up  with  it, 
but  I  cannot  understand  why  such  advice  should  be 
given  to  an  educated  person  in  the  full  possession 
of  his  faculties,  .  .  .  one  who  realises  what 
can  be  derived  from  such  studies  for  the  fuller 
understanding  of  natural  things,  for  the  advance- 
ment of  morals  and  of  eloquence,  and  for  the  defence 

1  Here  follows  a  series  of  reflections  upon  the  brevity  of  life  and 
the  inevitability  of  death,  supported  by  excerpts  from  Ambrose  and 
Cicero.  Petrarch  often  reverts  to  this  subject  in  his  letters. 

9  To  wit,  the  lines,  "  Stat  sua  cuique  dies  .  .  .  sed  famam  ex- 
tendere  factis,  Hoc  virtutis  opus." 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      391 

of  our  religion.  (We  have  seen  with  what  signal 
success  those  whom  I  have  just  enumerated  1  used 
their  learning.)  I  am  speaking  now  only  of  the 
man  of  ripe  years,  who  knows  what  is  due  to  Jupiter 
the  adulterer,  Mercury  the  pander,  Mars  the  man- 
slayer,  Hercules  the  brigand,  and — to  cite  the  less 
guilty — to  the  leech  ^Esculapius,  and  his  father, 
Apollo  the  cither-player,  to  the  smith  Vulcan,  the 
spinner  Minerva;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  Mary 
the  virgin-mother,  and  to  her  son,  our  Redeemer, 
very  God  and  very  man.  If,  indeed,  we  must  avoid 
the  poets  and  other  writers  who  did  not  know  of 
Christ,  and  consequently  do  not  mention  his  name, 
how  much  more  dangerous  must  it  be  to  read  the 
books  of  heretics,  who  only  speak  of  Christ  to  at- 
tack him.  Nevertheless  the  defenders  of  the  true 
faith  do  read  them,  and  with  the  greatest  attention. 

Believe  me,  many  things  are  attributed  to  gravity 
and  wisdom  which  are  really  due  to  incapacity  and 
sloth.  Men  often  despise  what  they  despair  of  ob- 
taining. It  is  in  the  very  nature  of  ignorance  to 
scorn  what  it  cannot  understand,  and  to  desire  to  keep 
others  from  attaining  what  it  cannot  reach.  Hence 
the  false  judgments  upon  matters  of  which  we  know 
nothing,  by  which  we  evince  our  envy  quite  as 
clearly  as  our  stupidity. 

Neither  exhortations  to  virtue  nor  the  argument 
of  approaching  death  should  divert  us  from  litera- 
ture ;  for  in  a  good  mind  it  excites  the  love  of  virtue, 
and  dissipates,  or  at  least  diminishes,  the  fear  of 
death.  To  desert  our  studies  shows  want  of  self- 

1  Viz. ,  Lactantius,  Augustine,  and  Jerome. 


392  Petrarch 

confidence  rather  than  wisdom,  for  letters  do  not 
hinder  but  aid  the  properly  constituted  mind  which 
possesses  them;  they  facilitate  our  life,  they  do  not 
retard  it.  Just  as  many  kinds  of  food  which  lie 
heavy  on  an  enfeebled  and  nauseated  stomach  fur- 
nish excellent  nourishment  for  one  who  is  well  but 
famishing,  so  in  our  studies  many  things  which  are 
deadly  to  the  weak  mind  may  prove  most  salutary  to 
an  acute  and  healthy  intellect,  especially  if  in  our 
use  of  both  food  and  learning  we  exercise  proper 
discretion.  If  it  were  otherwise,  surely  the  zeal  of 
certain  persons  who  persevered  to  the  end  could  not 
have  roused  such  admiration.  Cato,  I  never  forget, 
acquainted  himself  with  Latin  literature  as  he  was 
growing  old,  and  Greek  when  he  had  really  become 
an  old  man.  Varro,  who  reached  his  hundredth 
year  still  reading  and  writing,  parted  from  life 
sooner  than  from  his  love  of  study.  Livius  Drusus, 
although  weakened  by  age  and  afflicted  with  blind- 
ness, did  not  give  up  his  interpretation  of  the  civil 
law,  which  he  carried  on  to  the  great  advantage  of 
the  state.  .  .  . 

Besides  these  and  innumerable  others  like  them, 
have  not  all  those  of  our  own  religion  whom  we 
should  wish  most  to  imitate  devoted  their  whole 
lives  to  literature,  and  grown  old  and  died  in  the 
same  pursuit  ?  Some,  indeed,  were  overtaken  by 
death  while  still  at  work  reading  or  writing.  To 
none  of  them,  so  far  as  I  know,  did  it  prove  a  dis- 
advantage to  be  noted  for  secular  learning,  except 
to  Jerome,  whom  I  mentioned  above;  while  to 
many,  and  Jerome  himself  not  least,  it  was  a  source 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      393 

of  glory.  I  do  not  forget  that  Benedict  was  praised 
by  Gregory  for  deserting  the  studies  which  he  had 
begun,  to  devote  himself  to  a  solitary  and  ascetic 
mode  of  life.  Benedict,  however,  had  renounced, 
not  the  poets  especially,  but  literature  altogether. 
Moreover,  I  very  much  doubt  if  his  admirer  would 
have  been  himself  admired  had  he  proceeded  to 
adopt  the  same  plan.  It  is  one  thing  to  have 
learned,  another  to  be  in  the  process  of  learning. 
It  is  only  the  hope  of  acquisition  which  the  boy  re- 
nounces,— quite  a  different  thing  from  the  learn- 
ing itself,  which  an  older  person  gives  up ;  the 
former  but  turns  away  from  an  obstacle,  while 
the  latter  sacrifices  an  ornament.  The  trials  and 
uncertainties  of  acquisition  are  alone  surrendered 
in  one  case ;  in  the  other  the  man  sacrifices  the  sure 
and  sweet  fruit  of  long,  laborious  years,  and  turns 
his  back  upon  the  precious  treasure  of  learning  which 
he  has  gathered  together  with  great  effort. 

While  I  know  that  many  have  become  famous  for 
piety  without  learning,  at  the  same  time  I  know  of 
no  one  who  has  been  prevented  by  literature  from 
following  the  path  of  holiness.  The  apostle  Paul 
was,  to  be  sure,  accused  of  having  his  head  turned 
by  study,  but  the  world  has  long  ago  passed  its  ver- 
dict upon  this  accusation.  If  I  may  be  allowed  to 
speak  for  myself,  it  seems  to  me  that,  although  the 
path  to  virtue  by  the  way  of  ignorance  may  be  plain, 
it  fosters  sloth.  The  goal  of  all  good  people  is  the 
same,  but  the  ways  of  reaching  it  are  many  and 
various.  Some  advance  slowly,  others  with  more 
spirit ;  some  obscurely,  others  again  conspicuously. 


394  Petrarch 

One  takes  a  lower,  another  a  higher  path.  Although 
all  alike  are  on  the  road  to  happiness,  certainly  the 
more  elevated  path  is  the  more  glorious.  Hence 
ignorance,  however  devout,  is  by  no  means  to  be 
put  on  a  plane  with  the  enlightened  devoutness  of 
one  familiar  with  literature.  Nor  can  you  pick  me 
out  from  the  whole  array  of  unlettered  saints,  an 
example  so  holy  that  I  cannot  match  it  with  a  still 
holier  one  from  the  other  group. 

But  I  will  trouble  you  no  longer  with  these  mat- 
ters, as  I  have  already  been  led  by  the  nature  of 
the  subject  to  discuss  them  often.  I  will  add  only 
this :  if  you  persist  in  your  resolution  to  give  up 
those  studies  which  I  turned  my  back  upon  so  long 
ago,  as  well  as  literature  in  general,  and,  by  scatter- 
ing your  books,  to  rid  yourself  of  the  very  means  of 
study, — if  this  is  your  firm  intention,  I  am  glad  in- 
deed that  you  have  decided  to  give  me  the  preference 
before  everyone  else  in  this  sale.  As  you  say,  I  am 
most  covetous  of  books.  I  could  hardly  venture  to 
deny  that  without  being  refuted  by  my  works. 
Although  I  might  seem  in  a  sense  to  be  purchasing 
what  is  already  my  own,  I  should  not  like  to  see  the 
books  of  such  a  distinguished  man  scattered  here 
and  there,  or  falling,  as  will  often  happen,  into  pro- 
fane hands.  In  this  way,  just  as  we  have  been  of 
one  mind,  although  separated  in  the  flesh,  I  trust 
that  our  instruments  of  study  may,  if  God  will  grant 
my  prayer,  be  deposited  all  together  in  some  sacred 
spot  where  they  may  remain  a  perpetual  memorial 
to  us  both.1  I  came  to  this  decision  upon  the  day 

1  IB  regard  to  Petrarch's  library  see  above,  pp.  28  sqq. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      395 

on  which  he  died  who  I  hoped  might  succeed  me 
in  my  studies.1  I  cannot,  however,  fix  the  prices  of 
the  books,  as  you  most  kindly  would  have  me  do. 
I  do  not  know  their  titles  and  number,  or  their 
value.  You  can  arrange  this  by  letter,  and  on  the 
understanding  that  if  it  should  ever  occur  to  you  to 
spend  with  me  the  little  time  which  remains  to  us, 
as  I  have  always  wished,  and  you  at  one  time  seemed 
to  promise,  you  will  find  the  books  you  send  with 
those  that  I  have  recently  gathered  together  here, 
all  of  them  equally  yours,  so  that  you  will  seem  to 
have  lost  nothing,  but  rather  gained,  by  the  trans- 
action. 

Lastly,  you  assert  that  you  owe  money  to  many, 
to  me  among  others.  I  deny  that  it  is  true  in  my 
case.  I  am  surprised  at  so  unfounded  and  even  ab- 
surd a  scruple  of  conscience  on  your  part.  I  might 
apply  Terence's  saying,  that  you  seem  "  to  be  look- 
ing for  a  joint  in  a  reed."  You  owe  me  nothing 
but  love,  and  not  even  that,  since  you  long  ago  paid 
me  in  full, — unless  it  be  that  you  always  are  owing, 
because  you  are  always  receiving.  Still,  one  who 
pays  back  so  promptly  cannot  properly  be  said  ever 
to  owe. 

As  to  the  complaint  of  poverty,  which  I  have  fre- 
quently heard  from  you  before,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
furnish  any  consolation  or  to  cite  any  illustrious  ex- 
amples of  indigence.  You  know  them  already.  I 
will  only  say  plainly  what  I  have  always  said  :  I  con- 

1  It  is  not  known  to  whom  Petrarch  refers  here  ;  de  Nolhac  sug- 
gests his  son  Giovanni,  who  died  a  year  before  this  was  written.  Cf. 
op.  cit.,  p.  68,  note  I. 


396  Petrarch 

gratulate  you  for  preferring  liberty  of  mind  and 
tranquil  poverty  to  the  opulence  which  I  might  have 
procured  for  you,  even  though  tardily.1  But  I  can- 
not praise  you  for  scorning  the  oft-repeated  invi- 
tation of  a  friend.  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  endow 
you.  If  I  were,  I  should  not  confine  myself  to  pen 
or  words,  but  should  address  you  with  the  thing  itself. 
But  I  am  amply  supplied  with  all  that  two  would 
need,  if,  with  a  single  heart,  they  dwelt  beneath  a 
single  roof.  You  insult  me  if  you  scorn  my  offers, 
still  more  so,  if  you  are  suspicious  of  their  sincerity. 
PADUA,  May  28  (1362). 

The  following  letter  is  one  of  Petrarch's 
most  unreserved  confessions  of  confidence  in 
Christian  asceticism. 

On  a  Religious  Life. 
To  his  Brother  Gherardo,  a  Carthusian  Monk* 

Your  double  gift, — the  boxwood  box,  which  you 
yourself  in  your  leisure  moments  had  polished  so 
carefully  on  the  lathe,  and  the  very  edifying  letter, 
built  up  and  strengthened  by  a  vast  number  of  quo- 
tations from  the  Fathers,  and  testifying  a  truly  re- 
ligious spirit, — reached  me  yesterday  evening.  I 
was  delighted  to  receive  them  both,  but  as  I  read  the 

1  The  pope  had  asked  Petrarch  to  suggest  someone  for  a  papal 
secretaryship.  He  had  offered  the  place  to  Boccaccio,  who  however 
refused  it. 

8  Fam.,  x.,  5. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      397 

letter  I  was,  I  must  confess,  affected  by  strangely 
conflicting  emotions,  now  warmed  by  generous,  im- 
pulses, now  paralysed  by  chilling  fear.  Your  ad- 
mirable example  aroused  in  me  the  longing  to  lead  a 
better  life,  and  supplied  the  incentive ;  it  loosed  the 
hold  which  the  present  exercised  over  me,  enabling 
me  to  see  more  clearly  where  I  really  stood.  You 
showed  me  the  road  which  I  must  follow,  and  the 
distance  which  still  separates  me,  miserable  sinner 
that  I  am,  from  our  other  home,  the  New  Jerusalem, 
for  which  we  must  always  sigh,  unless  this  dark 
and  noisome  dungeon  of  exile  has  destroyed  all 
recollection  of  our  true  selves. 

Well,  I  congratulate  both  of  us, — you,  that  you 
have  such  a  soul,  myself,  that  I  have  such  a  brother. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  one  thing  fills  me  with  pain  and 
regret, — that  while  we  had  the  same  parents  we 
should  not  have  been  born  under  the  same  star. 
We  are  sprung  from  the  same  womb;  but  how  un- 
like, how  unequal !  This  serves  to  show  us  that  our 
natures  are  the  gift,  not  of  our  earthly  parents,  but 
of  our  Eternal  Father.  We  were  begotten  in  carnal 
depravity  by  our  father;  to  our  mother  we  owe  this 
vile  body ;  but  from  God  we  receive  our  soul,  our 
life,  our  intellect,  our  desire  for  good,  our  free  will. 
All  that  is  holy,  religious,  devout,  or  excellent  in 
human  nature  comes  directly  from  him. 

So  your  letter  at  once  comforted  and  distressed 
me.  I  rejoiced  in  you  and  blushed  for  myself.  I  can 
only  say  in  reply  to  it  that  what  you  write  is  all  very 
good  and  helpful,  though  it  would  have  been  quite 
as  true  even  if  you  had  not  supported  it  so  abun- 


398  Petrarch 

dantly  by  high  authorities.  Take,  for  example,  the 
opinion,  which  you  call  in  St.  Augustine  to  defend, 
that  our  endeavours,  as  well  as  our  desires,  are 
often  at  variance  with  one  another. — I  should  like, 
however,  if  you  will  permit  me,  to  express  my  own 
views  upon  this  matter  before  coming  to  Augus- 
tine's. By  so  doing  I  shall  gratify  myself  without, 
perhaps,  annoying  you. 

The  aims  of  mankind  as  a  whole,  and  even  those 
of  the  individual,  are  conflicting.  This  must  be  ad- 
mitted ;  I  know  others  and  myself  all  too  well  to 
deny  it.  I  have  looked  at  the  race  as  a  whole,  and 
have  examined  individuals  in  detail.  What  can,  in 
truth,  be  said  that  will  apply  to  all;  or  who  can 
possibly  enumerate  the  infinite  diversities  which 
distinguish  mortals  from  one  another,  so  that  men 
do  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  same  species  or  even 
to  the  same  genus  ?  .  .  .'  This,  I  confess,  sur- 
prises me,  but  it  is  much  more  astonishing  that  the 
wishes  of  one  and  the  same  man  should  so  ill  agree. 
Who  of  us,  indeed,  desires  the  same  thing  when  he 
is  old  that  he  craved  as  a  youth  ?  Or,  what  is  still 
stranger,  who  wants  in  the  winter  what  he  wished  in 
the  summer  ?  Nay,  who  of  us  would  have  to-day 
what  we  longed  for  yesterday,  or  this  evening  what 
we  sought  only  this  morning  ?  As  for  that,  we  can 
see  the  vacillation  from  hour  to  hour,  from  minute  to 
minute.  Yes,  there  are  more  desires  in  man  than 
minutes  to  realise  them.  This  is  a  constant  source 
of  wonder  to  me,  and  I  marvel  that  everyone  should 

1  Four  or  five  pages  of  somewhat  trite  reflections  are  here  omitted, 
as  they  cast  no  real  light  upon  the  writer's  attitude  toward  religion. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      399 

not  find  it  so.  But  I  am  losing  myself,  and  must 
return  to  you  and  your  Augustine. 

That  the  same  individual  may  at  the  same  mo- 
ment be  in  disagreement  with  himself  in  regard  to 
the  same  object — a  truth  which  you  call  St.  Augus- 
tine to  witness,  although  you  do  not  express  your- 
self in  exactly  his  words — is  a  source  of  the  most 
profound  astonishment  to  me.  How  common, 
nevertheless,  is  this  species  of  madness, — to  desire  to 
continue  our  journey  but  without  reaching  the  end, 
to  wish  to  go  and  stay  at  the  same  time,  to  live  and 
yet  never  die  !  Yet  it  is  written  in  the  Psalms, 
'  What  man  is  he  that  liveth  and  shall  not  see 
death  ? "  Still,  we  harbour  these  contradictory 
desires.  In  our  blindness  and  incredible  perversity 
we  yearn  for  life,  and  execrate  its  outcome,  death. 
These  wishes  are,  however,  thoroughly  at  variance 
with  each  other,  and  mutually  exclusive.  Not  only 
does  death  necessarily  follow  life,  but,  as  Cicero  says, 
— in  whose  opinion  on  this  point  I  have,  for  some 
reason,  almost  more  confidence  than  in  that  of 
Catholic  writers, — "  What  we  call  our  life  is  in 
reality  death."  So  it  falls  out  that  we  both  hate 
and  love  death  above  all  things,  and  are  fitly  de- 
scribed in  the  words  of  the  comic  poet, —  Volo  nolo, 
nolo  volo. 

But  let  us  leave  aside  for  the  time  being  these 
philosophical  reflections,  which,  although  perhaps 
inopportune,  are  none  the  less  true,  and  deal  with 
this  matter  as  a  common  man  might.  Let  us  accept 
this  life  as  it  is  generally  conceived  and  so  fondly 
cherished ;  let  us  suppose  it  to  begin  to-day — what 


400  Petrarch 

does  it  really  promise  us  ?  Surely  anyone  can 
readily  infer  the  answer  who  reviews  the  experience 
of  the  years  already  passed,  and  uses  the  same  meas- 
ure for  the  future,  although  in  his  imagination  he 
may  extend  his  hopes  and  cares  to  a  full  century  of 
life.  What,  may  I  ask,  is  the  prospect  for  those 
who  are  already  advanced  in  years  ?  What  is  past 
is  certainly  dead  and  gone,  and  for  the  future  we 
can  only  rely  upon  the  assurances  of  a  fleeting  and 
precarious  existence.  Even  if  its  promises  should 
be  fulfilled,  the  stubborn  fact  remains  that  the 
same  number  of  years  seems  in  old  age,  for  some 
reason  which  I  cannot  explain,  shorter  than  in  the 
first  part  of  our  life.  Who,  then,  can  doubt  the 
full  truth  of  your  assertions,  that  we  are  constantly 
occupied  in  a  fervid  quest  for  happiness  and  pros- 
perous days,  when  neither  happiness  nor  prosperous 
days  are  to  be  found  ?  Nor  can  we  hope  for  rest  or 
safety,  or  life  itself,  or  anything  except  a  hard  and 
weary  journey  toward  the  eternal  home  for  which 
we  look;  or,  if  we  neglect  our  salvation,  an  equally 
pleasureless  way  to  eternal  death.  Should  we  not, 
then,  seek  our  true  welfare  while  we  still  have  time, 
in  the  only  place  where  the  good  and  perfect  can 
be  found  ? 

Of  the  other  matter  which  you  treat  in  so  finished 
a  manner  in  your  letter  I  will  say  nothing,  both  be- 
cause your  treatment  is  quite  exhaustive,  and  be- 
cause the  language  of  religious  discussion  could  have 
little  weight  in  the  mouth  of  a  sinful  and  miserable 
man,  such  as  I.  I  content  myself  with  admiring  in 
silence  the  constancy  of  your  mind  and  the  vigour 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      40! 

of  your  style.  It  is  plain  that  you  have  had  a  very 
different  preceptor  in  the  monastery  from  what  you 
found  in  the  world.  It  is  not  surprising  that  he 
who  could  teach  you  to  will  and  to  act  could  also 
teach  you  to  speak,  for  speech  follows  the  mind  and 
actions  closely.  You  have,  in  a  brief  space,  altered 
greatly  as  to  both  the  inner  and  the  outer  man. 
This  would  surprise  me  more  had  I  not  learned  the 
power  of  the  Most  High  to  change  the  heart  of 
man.  For  he  can  with  equal  ease  affect  the  dispo- 
sition of  the  race  or  of  a  single  individual ;  he  can 
move  the  earth  or  change  the  whole  face  of  nature. 
You  have  sought  out  for  me  a  noble  array  of  pas- 
sages from  the  Fathers,  and  ordered  them  so  artfully 
that  I  am  led  to  admire  your  arrangement  almost 
as  much  as  the  sentiments  themselves.  Skilful  com- 
position frequently  brings  home  to  us  what  we 
should  otherwise  miss,  as  we  learn  when  we  study 
the  art  of  poetry.  You  will  forgive  me  one  sugges- 
tion. You  are  extremely  modest,  perhaps  too 
modest,  and  wanting  in  proper  self-confidence. 
You  would  do  well  to  trust,  for  a  time  at  least, 
more  to  your  own  powers;  nor  be  afraid  that  the 
same  spirit  which  made  the  Fathers  wise  will  not 
aid  you.  For  it  is  written,  'It  is  not  ye  who 
speak,  but  the  spirit  of  my  Father  which  speaks  in 
you."  You  may  give  utterance  to  truths  of  your 
own,  perhaps  very  many,  which  will  benefit  not 
only  yourself  but  others  as  well. 

Coming  finally  to  myself,  who  have  been,  by 
reason  of  the  storms  which  rage  about  me,  a  serious 
source  of  brotherly  solicitude  and  apprehension  to 


402  Petrarch 

you,  I  can  only  say  that  you  are  justified  in  cherish- 
ing a  lively  hope,  if  not  the  complete  assurance,  of 
my  safety.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  counsel  you 
gave  when  you  left  me.  I  cannot  maintain  that 
I  have  actually  reached  the  haven,  but,  like  sailors 
caught  in  a  storm  out  at  sea,  I  have  found  my  way 
to  the  leeward  of  an  island,  so  to  speak,  where  I  am 
protected  from  the  wind  and  waves.  Here  I  lie  and 
wait  until  I  may  make  a  safer  harbour.  On  what  do 
I  base  my  hope  ?  you  will  ask.  With  Christ's  help, 
I  have  sought  to  fulfil  the  three  duties  which  you 
recommended  to  me,  and  have,  with  all  my  might, 
tried  to  carry  them  out  more  and  more  fully  each 
day.  I  do  not  tell  this  for  my  own  glory,  for  I  am 
still  afflicted  by  many  ills  and  misgivings,  and  have 
much  to  regret  in  the  past,  much  to  trouble  me  in 
the  present,  and  much  to  fear  in  the  future,  but  I 
send  you  word  of  my  progress  in  order  that  you 
may  rejoice  in  the  first  fruits  of  your  efforts,  and 
that  the  greater  the  hopes  you  have  of  me,  the  more 
frequently  you  may  pray  for  my  salvation. 

In  the  three  following  respects  I  have  complied 
with  your  injunctions.  In  the  first  place,  I  have, 
by  means  of  solitary  confession,  laid  open  the  secret 
uncleanness  of  my  transgressions,  which  would  other- 
wise have  fatally  putrified,  through  neglect  and  long 
silence.  I  have  learned  to  do  this  frequently,  and 
have  accustomed  myself  to  submit  the  secret  wounds 
of  my  soul  to  the  healing  balm  of  Heaven.  Next, 
I  have  learned  to  send  up  songs  of  praise  to  Christ, 
not  only  by  day  but  in  the  night.  And  following 
your  admonitions  I  have  put  away  habits  of  sloth, 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      403 

so  that  even  in  these  short  summer  nights  the  dawn 
never  finds  me  asleep  or  silent,  however  wearied  I 
am  by  the  vigils  of  the  evening  before.  I  have  taken 
the  words  of  the  Psalmist  to  heart,  "  Seven  times  a 
day  do  I  praise  thee  " ;  and  never  since  I  began 
this  custom  have  I  allowed  anything  to  distract 
me  from  my  daily  devotions.  I  observe,  likewise, 
the  admonition,  "  At  midnight  I  will  rise  to  give 
thanks  unto  thee."  When  the  hour  arrives  I  feel  a 
mysterious  stimulus  which  will  not  allow  me  to 
sleep,  however  oppressed  I  may  be  with  weariness. 
In  the  third  place,  I  have  learned  to  fear  more 
than  death  itself  that  association  with  women  which 
I  once  thought  I  could  not  live  without.  And, 
although  I  am  still  subject  to  severe  and  frequent 
temptations,  I  have  but  to  recollect  what  woman 
really  is,  in  order  to  dispel  all  temptation  and  return 
to  my  normal  peace  and  liberty.  In  such  straits  I 
believe  myself  aided  by  your  loving  prayers,  and  I 
trust  and  beg  that  you  will  continue  your  good 
offices,  in  the  name  of  him  who  had  mercy  on  you, 
and  led  you  from  the  darkness  of  your  errors  into 
the  brightness  of  his  day.  In  all  this  you  are  most 
happy,  and  show  a  most  consistent  contempt  for 
false  and  fleeting  joys.  May  God  uphold  you.  Do 
not  forget  me  in  your  prayers. 

IN  SOLITUDE.    June  n  (1352). 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  conventional  and 
even  ardent  respect  which  Petrarch  paid  to  the 
monkishness  of  his  age,  he  was,  after  all,  too 


404  Petrarch 

genuine  and  independent  a  thinker  not  to  turn 
against  some  of  its  implications.  For  instance, 
he  would  never  consent  to  give  up  his  secular 
literary  pursuits,  or  admit  that  they  were  un- 
holy. He  was  always  ready  to  defend  the 
study  of  the  classics,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
vigorously  dissuaded  his  more  impressionable 
friend  Boccaccio  from  yielding  to  spiritual  in- 
timidation. He  frankly  admits,  moreover,  that 
he  could  never  overcome  the  longing  for  per- 
sonal glory,  which  he  hoped  to  secure  by  his 
Latin  writings.  The  proud  boasts  of  Horace 
and  Ovid,  who  claimed  immortality  for  their 
works,  suggested  to  his  eager,  restless  spirit 
something  very  different  from  the  self-anni- 
hilation of  the  cloister.  Whether  he  really 
believed  such  aspirations  to  be  utterly  incom- 
patible with  Christian  humility,  is  difficult  to 
decide.  Late  in  life  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
celebrate  the  "  Triumph  of  Glory"  in  Italian 
verse,  but  in  his  earlier  days  he  was  less  con- 
fident of  the  righteousness  of  merely  earthly 
aspirations.  The  whole  question  is  treated  at 
great  length  in  his  Secret,  to  which  we  have  so 
often  referred. 

Toward  the  close  of  that  discussion,  Au- 
gustine, after  considering  Petrarch's  minor 
faults,  declares  that  he  suffers  from  two  dis- 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      4°5 

eases  of  the  soul  far  more  inveterate  and  un- 
controllable than  any  of  which  he  has  spoken. 
They  must  be  checked  at  any  cost,  else  they 
will  surely  produce  a  fatal  spiritual  blindness. 
He  is  bound  hand  and  foot,  as  with  adamantine 
chains,  and,  what  renders  the  case  almost  hope- 
less, he  is  unaware  of  his  danger.  He  rejoices 
in  his  fetters,  which  seem  to  him  but  golden 
ornaments.  In  alarm  Francesco  asks  to  what 
chains  his  confessor  refers.  "  Love  and  Fame," 
Augustine  replies.  "  All  the  other  bonds  which 
held  you  were  weaker  and  less  pleasing,  hence 
you  befriended  my  endeavours  to  break  them. 
But  these  charm  while  they  destroy,  and  de- 
ceive you  by  a  certain  suggestion  of  propriety 
and  the  hope  of  embellishment.  Hence  they 
offer  peculiar  difficulties,  and,  although  I  will 
attempt  to  free  you,  you  will  struggle  against 
me  as  if  I  wished  to  rob  you  of  your  most 
precious  possessions."  "  What  have  I  done  to 
you,"  Francesco  indignantly  exclaims,  "that 
you  should  deprive  me  of  my  most  splendid 
preoccupations,1  and  condemn  to  eternal  dark- 
ness the  brightest  part  of  my  soul  ?  " 

We  have  already  described   Petrarch's  de- 
fence of   love.2     As  in  his  discussion  of   his 

1  Speciosissimas  curas.     Opera,  pp.  352,  353. 
*  See  above,  pp.  91  sqq. 


406  Petrarch 

affection  for  a  noble  woman,  so  in  his  support 
of  fame  as  an  ideal,  we  find  an  illustration  of 
the  modern  view  of  life  as  opposed  to  the  medi- 
aeval. Most  of  us  nowadays  would  doubt- 
less agree  with  Matthew  Arnold,  that  few 
things  are  less  vain  than  glory.  At  least,  the 
pursuit  of  it  seems  to  us  in  no  way  ignoble ; 
it  is,  as  Petrarch  well  says,  a  "  splendid  pre- 
occupation." He  readily  admits  however  to 
Augustine,  the  representative  of  mediaeval 
Christianity,  that  he  is  overanxious  to  make 
his  name  immortal,  and  that  this  uncontrol- 
lable passion  may  well  bar  his  way  to  true 
immortality. 

Augustine  opens  his  exhortation  by  depre- 
ciating glory,  which  is  but  a  breath,  the  empty 
applause  of  that  very  mob  whose  manners  are, 
in  other  respects,  so  odious  to  Petrarch.  In 
miserable  contradiction  with  himself,  the  poet 
endeavours,  by  choice  excerpts  from  the  writ- 
ings of  the  ancients,  to  charm  the  ears  of  those 
whom  he  despises.  This  Petrarch  angrily  de- 
nies. But  his  confessor  maintains  that  at  least  he 
stores  up  elegant  quotations  to  employ  for  the 
delectation  of  his  friends,  and,  not  satisfied  with 
the  reputation  which  he  gains  in  this  way,  and 
which  he  cannot  hope  will  outlast  his  contem- 
poraries, he  devotes  himself  to  the  composition 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      40? 

of  a  great  epic,  the  Africa,  and  of  an  exacting 
historical  work,  embracing  the  period  from 
Romulus  to  the  Emperor  Titus.  Engrossed 
by  this  double  struggle  for  posthumous  fame 
"  he  forgets  himself  as  he  writes  about  others." 
Death  may  at  any  time  snatch  the  weary  pen 
from  his  hand,  and  frustrate  plans  to  which  he 
has  devoted  his  whole  life.  (This,  at  least,  was 
no  new  apprehension  to  Petrarch.  He  had 
even  contemplated  burning  his  poem,  lest  it 
should  be  left  for  completion  to  some  bung- 
ling hand.)  As  Augustine  continues  to  dwell 
upon  the  transitory  nature  of  any  reputation 
which  can  be  hoped  for,  granting  even  the  most 
favourable  conditions,  Petrarch  impatiently 
asks  if  he  has  not  something  better  to  urge 
than  these  trite  reflections,  which  sound  well, 
but  which  he  has  found  by  experience  to  be  of 
no  avail. 

The  confessor  then  adverts  to  the  mad  tend- 
ency of  mankind  to  spend  their  best  years  in  en- 
deavouring to  gratify  the  ears  of  others,  while 
they  reserve  only  the  failing  and  uncertain 
period  of  old  age  for  God  and  themselves. 
Whereupon  Francesco  asks  whether  Augustine 
would  have  him  forsake  his  studies  altogether 
and  lead  an  inglorious  existence,  or  shall  he  pur- 
sue some  middle  course  ?  His  confessor  replies 


408  Petrarch 

that  we  do  not  live  inglorious  lives,  even  though 
we  follow  not  fame  but  virtue,  for  true  fame  is 
but  the  shadow  of  virtue.  "  Throw  off  the 
burden  of  your  proposed  Roman  History,"  he 
concludes  ;  "  lay  aside  your  Africa,  which  can- 
not increase  the  fame  of  your  Scipio  or  of 
yourself.  Turn  your  thoughts  upon  Death  ! " 

That  this  advice  is  good,  Francesco  does 
not  deny,  but  he  firmly  refuses  to  give  up  his 
literary  tasks,  which  he  cannot  with  equanim- 
ity leave  half  done.  He  promises  to  die  unto 
himself  sedulously,  and  to  hasten  to  complete 
his  books,  in  order  to  devote  himself  exclu- 
sively to  religious  contemplation. 

It  will  be  seen  that  while  Petrarch  found 
little  to  urge  against  Augustine's  views,  he 
nevertheless  refused  to  follow  his  advice,  ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  he  might  do  so  without  inter- 
fering with  what  he  rightly  considered  his 
life-work.  Without  the  ability  to  defend  the 
modern  belief  that  earnest  toil  is  presumably  a 
far  more  rational  preparation  for  death  than  a 
paralysing  contemplation  of  its  horrors,  he  still 
worked  bravely  on,  until  the  pen  dropped  from 
his  hand.  There  is  something  noble  and  pa- 
thetic in  this  sturdy,  unflagging  industry  in  the 
face  of  the  discomforting  suggestions  of  mon- 
asticism.  Petrarch's  life  consistently  transcend- 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      409 

ed  and  belied  the  ideals  of  his  age,  although 
in  his  less  exuberant  moments  he  was  unable 
to  free  himself  from  them  entirely. 

The  reader  will  have  noted  references  in  the 
letters  already  given  to  his  longing  for  fame. 
The  letter  which  follows  is  the  earliest  which 
we  have  from  his  hand,  and  was  written,  prob- 
ably, in  1326,  while  he  was  still  a  student  at 
Bologna.  His  views  at  the  age  of  twenty-two 
were  not  essentially  different  from  those  which 
he  held  at  seventy. 

On  the  Impossibility  of  Acquiring  Fame 
during  ones  Lifetime. 

To  Tommaso  di  Messina. ' 

No  wise  man  will  regard  as  peculiar  to  himself  a 
source  of  dissatisfaction  which  is  common  to  all. 
Each  of  us  has  quite  enough  to  complain  of  at  home ; 
a  great  deal  too  much,  in  fact.  Do  you  think  that 
no  one  ever  had  your  experience  before  ?  You  are 
mistaken, — it  is  the  common  fate  of  all.  Scarcely 
anyone  ever  did  or  wrote  anything  which  was  re- 
garded with  admiration  while  he  still  lived.  Death 
first  gives  rise  to  praise, — and  for  a  very  simple  rea- 
son ;  jealousy  lives  and  dies  with  the  body.  ' '  But, ' ' 
you  reply,  "  the  writings  of  so  many  are  lauded  to 
the  skies,  that,  if  it  be  permissible  to  boast,  .  .  ." 

%  i.,  I. 


410  Petrarch 

Here  you  stop,  and,  as  is  the  habit  of  those  who  are 
irritated,  you  leave  your  auditor  in  suspense  by 
dropping  your  sentence  half  finished.  But  I  easily 
guess  your  half-expressed  thought,  and  know  what 
you  would  say.  Many  productions  are  received 
with  enthusiasm  which,  compared  with  yours,  de- 
serve neither  praise  nor  readers,  and  yet  yours  fail 
to  receive  any  attention.  You  will  certainly  recog- 
nise in  my  words  your  own  indignant  reasoning, 
which  would  be  quite  justifiable  if,  instead  of  ap- 
plying it  exclusively  to  yourself,  you  extended  it  to 
all  those  who  have  been,  are,  or  shall  be,  seized  by 
this  passionate  and  diseased  craving  to  write. 

Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  those  whose  writings 
have  become  famous.  Where  are  the  writers  them- 
selves ?  They  have  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  these 
many  years.  And  you  long  for  praise  ?  Then  you, 
too,  must  die.  The  favour  of  humanity  begins  with 
the  author's  decease ;  the  end  of  life  is  the  begin- 
ning of  glory.  If  it  begins  earlier,  it  is  abnormal 
and  untimely.  Moreover,  so  long  as  any  of  your 
contemporaries  still  live,  although  you  may  begin  to 
get  possession  of  what  you  desire,  you  may  not  have 
its  full  enjoyment.  Only  when  the  ashes  of  a  whole 
generation  have  been  consigned  to  the  funeral  urn 
do  men  begin  to  pass  an  unbiassed  judgment,  free 
from  personal  jealousy.  Let  the  present  age  har- 
bour any  opinion  it  will  of  us.  If  it  be  just,  let 
us  receive  it  with  equanimity;  if  unjust,  we  must 
appeal  to  unprejudiced  judges, — to  posterity,  seeing 
that  a  fair-minded  verdict  can  be  obtained  nowhere 
else. 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      411 

Personal  intercourse  is  a  most  delicate  matter, 
disturbed  by  the  merest  trifles.  Actual  contact  with 
a  person  is  peculiarly  disastrous  to  his  glory.  Inter- 
course and  familiarity  are  sure  to  beget  contempt.1 

When  we  turn  to  the  scholars — and  we  are  all  fa- 
miliar with  that  half -starved,  overworked  breed — we 
find  that,  in  spite  of  all  their  toil,  they,  too,  are  totally 
wanting  in  critical  ability.  They  read  a  deal,  but 
never  subject  what  they  read  to  criticism ;  and  it 
certainly  would  never  occur  to  them  to  examine  the 
merits  of  a  man's  work  if  they  thought  they  knew 
the  man  himself.  They  all  follow  one  law;  let 
them  but  cast  their  eyes  on  the  author,  his  works 
invariably  weary  and  disgust  them.  But  you  will 
say,  "  This  may  happen  to  the  less  highly  gifted;  a 
really  great  genius  will,  however,  overcome  all  ob- 
stacles." But  if  you  will  bring  back  Pythagoras  I 
will  see  that  his  detractors  are  not  wanting.  Sup- 
pose Plato  to  return  to  Greece,  Homer  and  Aristotle 
to  rise  from  the  dead,  Varro  and  Livy  to  appear 
again  in  Italy,  and  Cicero  to  flourish  once  more, — 
they  would  find  not  only  lukewarm  admirers  but 
jealous  and  virulent  calumniators,  such  as  each  found 
in  his  own  generation.  Who  among  all  Latin  writers 

1  Dante's  reasoning  in  the  Convito  (cap.  iii.  sq.)  offers  an  interest- 
ing analogy  to  that  of  Petrarch.  "I  have,"  he  says,  "  gone  through 
almost  all  the  land  in  which  this  language  [Italian]  lives, — a  pilgrim, 
almost  a  mendicant  ;  .  .  .  and  I  have  appeared  despicable  in  the 
eyes  of  many  who  perhaps,  through  some  report,  had  imagined  me  in 
other  guise  ;  in  the  sight  of  whom  not  only  did  my  person  become 
contemptible,  but  my  works,  both  those  that  were  completed  and 
those  that  remained  to  be  done,  appeared  less  worthy."  Dante  adds 
a  philosophical  explanation  of  this. 


412  Petrarch 

is  more  truly  great  than  Virgil  ?  Let  him  appear 
among  us,  and  he  would  be  a  poet  no  longer,  but  a 
low-lived  plagiarist,  or  a  mere  translator.  He,  how- 
ever, dared  to  rely  upon  his  own  genius  and  the  pa- 
tronage of  a  judge  like  Augustus,  and  so  disdained 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  carpings  of  envious 
contemporaries. 

You  also,  I  know,  are  confident  of  your  powers, 
but  where  will  you  find  a  judge  like  Augustus,  who, 
as  is  well  known,  assiduously  encouraged  every  kind 
of  talent  in  his  time  ?  Our  kings  can  pass  judgment 
on  the  flavour  of  a  dish,  or  the  flight  of  a  hawk ;  but 
on  human  qualities  they  can  offer  no  opinion,  and, 
should  they  try,  their  insolent  pride  would  blind 
them  or  keep  their  eyes  from  the  truth.  Lest  they 
should  seem  to  respect  anything  in  their  own  age, 
they  profess  an  admiration  for  the  ancients,  about 
whom,  however,  they  scorn  to  learn  anything.  So 
with  them  the  praise  of  the  dead  entails  an  affront 
to  the  living.  It  is  among  such  critics  that  we  must 
live  and  die,  and,  what  is  hardest,  hold  our  peace. 

Where,  I  asked,  are  you  to  find  a  judge  like 
Augustus  ?  Italy  rejoices  in  one,  indeed.  Yes, 
there  is  one  such  on  earth,  Robert,  the  Sicilian 
king.  Happy  Naples !  which  enjoys  the  unequalled 
good  fortune  of  possessing  the  single  ornament  of 
our  age.  Happy  and  most  enviable  Naples,  the 
august  home  of  literature!  If  thou  once  seemedst 
sweet  to  Virgil,  how  much  greater  thy  charm  since 
the  most  equitable  of  censors  of  talent  and  learning 
lives  within  thy  borders !  All  who  have  faith  in  their 
powers  flee  to  him.  Nor  should  they  delay,  for 


Monastic  and  Secular  Ideals      413 

delay  is  dangerous.  He  is  well  advanced  in  age ; 
the  world  has  long  deserved  to  lose  him,  while  he 
has  well  earned  the  title  to  happier  realms.  I  fear 
that  I  myself  may  be  storing  up  unavailing  regrets 
by  my  delay.  It  is  always  shameful  to  put  off  a 
good  thing,  and  deliberation  may  be  so  prolonged 
as  to  become  blameworthy.  The  opportunity 
should  be  improved,  and  that  which  could  not  be 
accomplished  earlier  should  be  done  now,  without 
further  delay.  As  for  myself,  I  have  resolved  to 
hasten  with  all  possible  speed,  and  to  dedicate  all 
my  powers  to  him  (as  Cicero  says,  in  one  of  his 
letters,  of  Caesar).  It  may  come  to  pass  that,  by 
ardent  application,  I  may  yet  reach  the  goal.  As  a 
belated  traveller,  although  he  has  overslept,  may  yet, 
with  speed,  reach  his  destination  earlier  than  if  he 
had  spent  the  night  on  the  road,  so  I,  late  as  I  have 
been  in  offering  my  homage  to  this  man,  may  still 
make  up  for  lost  time  by  increased  diligence.  As 
for  you,  you  must  adopt  your  own  expedients,  since 
it  is  not  simply  the  narrow  strait,  but  war,  which 
forms  the  obstacle  between  you  and  this  monarch. 
Your  country,  which  has  no  more  loyal  citizen  than 
yourself,  now  lies  under  the  dominion  of  a  hostile 
ruler,1  or  tyrant,  as  I  might  say,  did  I  not  fear  to 
offend  your  ears.  But  such  a  mighty  question  as 
this  is  to  be  decided,  not  by  our  pens,  but  by  the 
swords  of  those  interested.  .  .  . 

Reverting  now  to  our  original  discussion,  to-day 

1  Sicily,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  revolted  from  the  rule  of 
Charles  of  Anjou,  at  the  time  of  the  Sicilian  Vespers,  1282,  and  still 
remained  under  rulers  belonging  to  a  branch  of  the  house  of  Aragon. 


4H  Petrarch 

[we  see  about  us,  among  others,]  the  lawyers,  in 
whom  the  passion  for  self-glorification  is  universal, 
and  those  fellows  who  spend  their  whole  time  in  dis- 
putations and  dialectic  subtleties,  forever  wrangling 
over  some  trivial  question : — hear  my  verdict  upon 
the  whole  pack  of  them.  Their  fame  will  surely  die 
with  them  ;  a  single  grave  will  suffice  for  their  name 
and  their  bones.  When  death  shall  have  forced  their 
own  paralysed  tongues  to  silence,  those  of  others  will 
be  equally  silent  in  regard  to  all  that  concerns  them. 
.  .  .  But  what  is  it,  after  all,  that  we  are  so 
anxiously  striving  for  ?  The  fame  we  reach  after  is 
but  a  breath,  a  mist,  a  shadow,  a  nothing.  A  sharp 
and  penetrating  mind  will  therefore  easily  learn  to 
scorn  it.  But  if,  perchance, — since  it  is  a  pest  which 
commonly  pursues  the  generous  soul, — thou  canst 
not  radically  extirpate  this  longing,  thou  mayest  at 
least  check  its  growth  with  the  sickle  of  reason.  Ac- 
cept the  laws  of  time  and  circumstances.  Finally,  to 
sum  up  my  advice  in  a  word,  seek  virtue  while  thou 
livest,  and  thou  shalt  find  fame  in  thy  grave.  Adieu. 
BOLOGNA,  April  i8th. 


VII 

FINALE 


415 


Nulla  calamo  agilior  est  sarcina,  nulla  jucundior, 
voluptates  aliae  fugiunt  et  mulcendo  laedunt,  calamus 
et  in  manus  sumptus  mulcet  et  depositus  delectat,  ac 
prodest  non  domino  suo  tantum  sed  aliis  multis  saepe 
etiam  absentibus,  nonnunquam  et  posteris  post  annorum 
millorum. — Sen.,  xvi.,  2. 


416 


Petrarch's  Intention  to  Work  until  the  Last. 
To  Boccaccio. ' 

.  .  .*  I  certainly  will  not  reject  the  praise  you 
bestow  upon  me  for  having  stimulated  in  many  in- 
stances, not  only  in  Italy  but  perhaps  beyond  its 
confines  also,  the  pursuit  of  studies  such  as  ours, 
which  have  suffered  neglect  for  so  many  centuries ; 
I  am,  indeed,  almost  the  oldest  of  those  among  us 
who  are  engaged  in  the  cultivation  of  these  subjects. 
But  I  cannot  accept  the  conclusion  you  draw  from 
this,  namely,  that  I  should  give  place  to  younger 
minds,  and,  interrupting  the  plan  of  work  on  which 
I  am  engaged,  give  others  an  opportunity  to  write 
something,  if  they  will,  and  not  seem  longer  to  de- 
sire to  reserve  everything  for  my  own  pen.  How 
radically  do  our  opinions  differ,  although,  at  bottom, 
our  object  is  the  same!  I  seem  to  you  to  have 
written  everything,  or  at  least  a  great  deal,  while 
to  myself  I  appear  to  have  produced  almost  nothing. 

But  let  us  admit  that  I  have  written  much,  and 
shall  continue  to  write ; — what  better  means  have  I 
of  exhorting  those  who  are  following  my  example  to 

1  Sen.,  xvi.,  2.  8  The  first  half  of  the  letter  is  omitted. 

417 


V 


4i  8  Petrarch 


continued  perseverance  ?  Example  is  often  more 
potent  than  words.  The  aged  veteran  Camillas, 
going  into  battle  like  a  young  man,  assuredly 
aroused  more  enthusiasm  in  the  younger  warriors 
than  if,  after  drawing  them  up  in  line  of  battle  and 
telling  them  what  was  to  be  done,  he  had  left 
them  and  withdrawn  to  his  tent.  The  fear  you  ap- 
pear to  harbour,  that  I  shall  cover  the  whole  field 
and  leave  nothing  for  others  to  write,  recalls  the 
ridiculous  apprehensions  which  Alexander  of  Mace- 
don  is  reported  to  have  entertained,  lest  his  father, 
Philip,  by  conquering  the  whole  world,  should  de- 
prive him  of  any  chance  of  military  renown.  Fool- 
ish boy !  He  little  realised  what  wars  still  remained 
for  him  to  fight,  if  he  lived,  even  though  the  Orient 
were  quite  subjugated ;  he  had,  perhaps,  never  heard 
of  Papirius  Cursor,  or  the  Marsian  generals.  Seneca 
has,  however,  delivered  us  from  this  anxiety,  in  a 
letter  to  Lucilius,  where  he  says,  "  Much  still  re- 
mains to  be  done ;  much  will  always  remain,  and 
even  a  thousand  years  hence  no  one  of  our  descend- 
ants need  be  denied  the  opportunity  of  adding  his 
something." 

You,  my  friend,  by  a  strange  confusion  of  argu- 
ments, try  to  dissuade  me  from  continuing  my 
chosen  work  by  urging,  on  the  one  hand,  the  hope- 
lessness of  bringing  my  task  to  completion,  and  by 
dwelling,  on  the  other,  upon  the  glory  which  I 
have  already  acquired.  Then,  after  asserting  that 
I  have  filled  the  world  with  my  writings,  you  ask  me 
if  I  expect  to  equal  the  number  of  volumes  written 
by  Origen  or  Augustine.  No  one,  it  seems  to 


Finale  4X9 

me,  can  hope  to  equal  Augustine.  Who,  nowa- 
days, could  hope  to  equal  one  who,  in  my  judg- 
ment, was  the  greatest  in  an  age  fertile  in  great 
minds?  As  for  Origen,  you  know  that  I  am  wont 
to  value  quality  rather  than  quantity,  and  I  should 
prefer  to  have  produced  a  very  few  irreproachable 
works  rather  than  numberless  volumes  such  as  those 
of  Origen,  which  are  filled  with  grave  and  intolerable 
errors.  It  is  certainly  impossible,  as  you  say,  for  me 
to  equal  either  of  these,  although  for  very  different 
reasons  in  the  two  cases.  And  yet  you  contra- 
dict yourself,  for,  though  your  pen  invites  me  to 
repose,  you  cite  the  names  of  certain  active  old  men, 
— Socrates,  Sophocles,  and,  among  our  own  people, 
Cato  the  Censor, — as  if  you  had  some  quite  different 
end  in  view.  How  many  more  names  you  might 
have  recalled,  except  that  one  does  not  consciously 
argue  long  against  himself !  Searching  desperately 
for  some  excuse  for  your  advice  and  my  weakness, 
you  urge  that  perhaps  their  temperaments  differed 
from  mine.  I  readily  grant  you  this,  although  my 
constitution  has  sometimes  been  pronounced  very 
vigorous  by  those  who  claim  to  be  experienced  in 
such  matters ;  still,  old  age  will  triumph. 

You  assert,  too,  that  I  have  sacrificed  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  the  service  of  princes.  But  that  you  may 
no  longer  labour  under  a  delusion  in  this  matter, 
here  is  the  truth.  I  have  lived  nominally  with 
princes »  in  reality,  the  princes  lived  with  me.  I 
was  present  sometimes  at  their  councils,  and,  very 
rarely,  at  their  banquets.  I  should  never  have  sub- 
mitted to  any  conditions  which  would,  in  any  de- 


420  Petrarch 

gree,  have  interfered  with  my  liberty  or  my  studies. 
When  everyone  else  sought  the  palace,  I  hied  me 
to  the  woods,  or  spent  my  time  quietly  in  my  room, 
among  my  books.  To  say  that  I  have  never  lost  a 
day  would  be  false.  I  have  lost  many  days  (please 
God,  not  all)  through  inertia,  or  sickness,  or  distress 
of  mind, — evils  which  no  one  is  so  fortunate  as  to 
escape  entirely.  What  time  I  have  lost  in  the  ser- 
vice of  princes  you  shall  hear,  for,  like  Seneca,  I 
keep  an  account  of  my  outlays. 

First,  I  was  sent  to  Venice  to  negotiate  a  peace 
between  that  city  and  Genoa,  which  occupied  me 
for  an  entire  winter  month.1  Next  I  betook  myself 
to  the  extreme  confines  of  the  land  of  the  barbari- 
ans,2 and  spent  three  summer  months  in  arranging 
for  peace  in  Liguria,  with  that  Roman  sovereign 
who  fostered — or  I  had  better  say  deferred, — the 
hope  of  restoring  a  sadly  ruined  Empire.  Finally,  I 
went  to  France  3  to  carry  congratulations  to  King 
John  on  his  deliverance  from  an  English  prison; 
here  three  more  winter  months  were  lost.  Although 
during  these  three  journeys  I  dwelt  upon  my  usual 
subjects  of  thought,  nevertheless,  since  I  could 
neither  write  down  my  ideas  nor  impress  them  on 
my  memory,  I  call  those  days  lost.  It  is  true  that 
when  I  reached  Italy,  on  my  return  from  the  last 
expedition,  I  dictated  a  voluminous  letter  on  the 
variableness  of  fortune  to  a  studious  old  man,  Peter 

1  In  1353. 

2  That  is,  to  Prague  in  1356. 

3  In  1360.     All  three  missions  were  undertaken  for  the  dukes  of 
Milan. 


Finale  421 

of  Poitiers;  it  arrived  too  late,  however,  and  found 
him  dead.  Here,  then,  are  seven  months  lost  in  the 
service  of  princes;  nor  is  this  a  trifling  sacrifice,  I 
admit,  considering  the  shortness  of  life.  Would  that 
I  need  not  fear  a  greater  loss,  incurred  long  ago  by 
the  vanity  and  frivolous  employments  of  my  youth ! 
You  add,  further,  that  possibly  the  measure  of  life 
was  different  in  olden  times  from  what  it  is  in  ours, 
and  that  nowadays  we  may  regard  men  as  old  who 
were  then  looked  upon  as  young.  But  I  can  only 
reply  to  you  as  I  did  recently  to  a  certain  lawyer 
in  this  university,1  who,  as  I  learned,  was  accustomed 
to  make  that  same  assertion  in  his  lectures,  in  order 
to  depreciate  the  industry  of  the  ancients,  and  ex- 
cuse the  sloth  of  our  contemporaries.  I  sent  by 
one  of  his  students  to  warn  him  against  repeating 
the  statement,  unless  he  wished  to  be  considered  an  *'  ' 
ignoramus  by  scholars.  For  more  than  two  thou- 
sand years  there  has  been  no  change  in  the  length 
of  human  life.  Aristotle  lived  sixty-three  years. 
Cicero  lived  the  same  length  of  time;  moreover, 
although  he  might  have  been  spared  longer  had  it 
pleased  the  heartless  and  drunken  Antony,  he  had 
some  time  before  his  death  written  a  great  deal  about 
his  unhappy  and  premature  decline,  and  had  com- 
posed a  treatise  on  Old  Age,  for  the  edification  of 
himself  and  a  friend.  Ennius  lived  seventy  years, 
Horace  the  same  time,  while  Virgil  died  at  fifty-two, 
a  brief  life  even  for  our  time.  Plato,  it  is  true,  lived 
to  be  eighty-one;  but  this,  it  is  said,  was  looked 
upon  as  a  prodigy,  and  because  he  had  attained  the 

1  Of  Padua. 


422  Petrarch 

most  perfect  age  the  Magi  decided  to  offer  him  a 
sacrifice,  as  if  he  were  superior  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind. Yet  nowadays  we  frequently  see  in  our  cities 
those  who  have  reached  this  age;  octogenarians 
and  nonagenarians  are  often  to  be  met  with,  and  no 
one  is  surprised,  or  offers  sacrifices  to  them.  If  you 
recall  Varro  to  me,  or  Cato,  or  others  who  reached 
their  hundredth  year,  or  Gorgias  of  Leontium  who 
greatly  exceeded  that  age,  I  have  other  modern  in- 
stances to  set  off  against  them.  But  as  the  names 
are  obscure  I  will  mention  only  one,  Romualdo  of 
Ravenna,  a  very  noted  hermit,  who  recently  reached 
the  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years,  in  spite 
of  the  greatest  privations,  suffered  for  the  love  of 
Christ,  and  in  the  performance  of  numerous  vigils 
and  fasts  such  as  you  are  now  doing  all  in  your 
power  to  induce  me  to  refrain  from.  I  have  said  a 
good  deal  about  this  matter  in  order  that  you  may 
neither  believe  nor  assert  that,  with  the  exception 
of  the  patriarchs,  who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  and  who,  I  am  convinced,  developed  no  liter- 
ary activity  whatever,  any  of  our  predecessors  en- 
joyed greater  longevity  than  ourselves.  They  could 
boast  of  greater  activity,  not  of  a  longer  life, — if, 
indeed,  life  without  industry  deserves  to  be  called 
life  at  all,  and  not  a  slothful  and  useless  delay. 

By  a  few  cautious  words,  however,  you  avoid  the 
foregoing  criticism,  for  you  admit  that  it  may  not 
be  a  question  of  age  after  all,  but  that  it  may  per- 
haps be  temperament,  or  possibly  climate,  or  diet, 
or  some  other  cause,  which  precludes  me  from  doing 
what  the  others  were  all  able  to  do.  I  freely  concede 


Finale  423 

this,  but  I  cannot  accept  the  deduction  you  draw 
from  it,  and  which  you  support  with  laboriously 
elaborate  arguments ;  for  some  of  your  reasons  are, 
in  a  certain  sense,  quite  opposed  to  the  thesis  you 
would  prove.  You  counsel  me  to  be  contented — I 
quote  you  literally — with  having  perhaps  equalled 
Virgil  in  verse  (as  you  assert)  and  Cicero  in  prose. 
Oh,  that  you  had  been  induced  by  the  truth,  rather 
than  seduced  by  friendship,  in  saying  this !  You  add 
that,  in  virtue  of  a  senatus  consultum  following  the 
custom  of  our  ancestors,  I  have  received  the  most 
glorious  of  titles,  and  the  rare  honour  of  the  Roman 
laurel.  Your  conclusion  from  all  this  is  that,  with 
the  happy  results  of  my  studies,  in  which  I  rival  the 
greatest,  and  with  my  labours  honoured  by  the  no- 
blest of  prizes,  I  should  leave  off  importuning  God 
and  man,  and  rest  content  with  my  fate  and  the  ful- 
filment of  my  fondest  wishes.  Certainly  I  could 
make  no  objection  to  this  if  what  your  affection  for 
me  has  led  you  to  believe  were  true,  or  were  even 
accepted  by  the  rest  of  the  world ;  I  should  gladly 
acquiesce  in  the  opinions  of  others,  for  I  should 
always  rather  trust  their  judgment  than  my  own. 
But  your  view  is  not  shared  by  others,  and  least  of 
all  by  myself,  who  am  convinced  that  I  have  rivalled 
no  one,  except,  perhaps,  the  common  herd,  and 
rather  than  be  like  it  I  should  choose  to  remain  en- 
tirely unknown. 

As  for  the  laurel  wreath,  it  encircled  my  brow 
when  I  was  as  immature  in  years  and  mind  as  were 
its  leaves.  Had  I  been  of  riper  age  I  should  not 
have  desired  it.  The  aged  love  what  is  practical, 


424  Petrarch 

while  impetuous  youth  longs  only  for  what  is  daz« 
zling.  The  laurel  brought  me  no  increase  of  learning 
or  literary  power,  as  you  may  well  imagine,  while 
it  destroyed  my  peace  by  the  infinite  jealousy  it 
aroused.  I  was  punished  for  my  youthful  audacity 
and  love  of  empty  renown  ;  for  from  that  time  well- 
nigh  everyone  sharpened  his  tongue  and  pen  against 
me.  It  was  necessary  to  be  constantly  on  the  alert 
with  banners  flying,  ready  to  repel  an  attack,  now 
on  the  left,  now  on  the  right ;  for  jealousy  had  made 
enemies  of  my  friends.  I  might  narrate  in  this  con- 
nection many  occurrences  which  would  fill  you  with 
astonishment.  In  a  word,  the  laurel  made  me  known 
only  to  be  tormented ;  without  it,  I  should  have  led 
that  best  of  all  lives,  as  many  deem,  a  life  of  obscurity 
and  peace. 

You  put  the  finishing  touch  to  your  argument,  it 
seems  to  me,  when  you  urge  me  to  do  all  that  I  can 
to  prolong  my  life  as  a  joy  to  my  friends,  and  first 
and  foremost  as  a  solace  to  you  in  your  declining 
years,  because,  as  you  say,  you  desire  when  you  de- 
part hence  to  leave  me  still  alive.  Alas !  our  friend 
Simonides l  also  expressed  this  wish — a  wish  but  too 
speedily  granted :  if  there  were  any  order  in  human 
affairs,  it  is  he  who  should  have  survived  me.  My 
own  desires  are,  however,  directly  opposed  to  those 
which  my  friends — you  in  particular — harbour.  I 

1  /.  e.  t  Francesco  Nelli,  Prior  of  the  church  of  Santi  Apostoli  at 
Florence.  He  died  of  the  plague  in  1363.  Not  only  did  Petrarch 
dedicate  his  Letters  of  Old  Age  to  Nelli,  but  of  the  letters  preserved, 
he  addresses  a  greater  number  (thirty-five)  to  him  than  to  any  other 
of  his  correspondents. 


Finale  425 

should  prefer  to  die  while  you  are  all  still  alive,  and 
leave  those  behind  in  whose  memory  and  conver- 
sation I  should  still  live,  who  would  aid  me  by 
their  prayers,  and  by  whom  I  should  continue  to 
be  loved  and  cherished.  Except  a  pure  conscience, 
I  believe  there  is  no  solace  so  grateful  to  the  dying 
as  this. 

If  your  counsels  spring  from  the  belief  that  I  cling 
tenaciously  to  life,  you  are  entirely  mistaken.  Why 
should  I  wish  to  prolong  my  existence  among  cus- 
toms and  manners  which  make  me  constantly  de- 
plore that  I  have  fallen  on  such  times  ?  To  omit 
more  serious  disorders,  I  am  afflicted  by  the  per- 
verted and  indecent  clothing  of  a  most  frivolous  set 
of  men.  I  have  already  too  often  complained  of 
them,  both  in  speech  and  writing,  but  words  are  pow- 
erless to  quiet  my  indignation  and  distress  of  mind. 
These  fellows,  who  call  themselves  Italians,  and 
were,  indeed,  born  in  Italy,  do  all  they  can  to 
appear  like  barbarians.  Would  that  they  were  bar- 
barians, that  my  eyes  and  those  of  the  true  Italians 
might  be  delivered  from  so  shameful  a  spectacle ! 
May  God  Omnipotent  confound  them,  living  and 
dead  !  Not  satisfied  with  sacrificing  by  their  pusil- 
lanimity the  virtues  of  our  ancestors,  the  glory  of 
war,  and  all  the  arts  of  peace,  they  dishonour  in 
their  frenzy  the  speech  and  dress  of  our  country, 
so  that  we  may  consider  our  forefathers  happy  to 
have  passed  away  in  good  time,  and  may  envy 
even  the  blind,  who  are  spared  the  sight  of  these 
things. 

Finally,  you  ask  me  to  pardon  you  for  venturing 


426  Petrarch 

to  advise  me  and  for  prescribing  a  mode  of  life, 
namely,  that  I  hereafter  abstain  from  mental  exertion 
and  from  my  customary  labours  and  vigils,  and  en- 
deavour to  restore,  by  complete  rest  and  sleep,  the 
ravages  wrought  by  advancing  years  and  prolonged 
study.  I  will  not  pardon  you,  but  I  thank  you, 
well  aware  of  the  affection  which  makes  you  a  phy- 
sician for  me,  although  you  refuse  to  be  one  for 
yourself.  I  beg,  however,  that  you  will  obey  me, 
although  I  refuse  to  obey  you,  and  will  let  me  per- 
suade you  that,  even  if  I  were  most  tenacious  of  life, 
which  I  am  not,  I  should  assuredly  only  die  the 
sooner  if  I  followed  your  advice.  Continued  work 
and  application  form  my  soul's  nourishment.  So 
soon  as  I  commenced  to  rest  and  relax  I  should 
cease  to  live.  I  know  my  own  powers.  I  am  not 
fitted  for  other  kinds  of  work,  but  my  reading  and 
writing,  which  you  would  have  me  discontinue,  are 
easy  tasks,  nay,  they  are  a  delightful  rest,  and  re- 
lieve the  burden  of  heavier  anxieties.  There  is  no 
lighter  burden,  nor  more  agreeable,  than  a  pen. 
Other  pleasures  fail  us,  or  wound  us  while  they 
charm;  but  the  pen  we  take  up  rejoicing  and  lay 
down  with  satisfaction,  for  it  has  the  power  to  ad- 
vantage not  only  its  lord  and  master,  but  many 
others  as  well,  even  though  they  be  far  away, — 
sometimes,  indeed,  though  they  be  not  born  for 
thousands  of  years  to  come.  I  believe  that  I  speak 
but  the  strict  truth  when  I  claim  that  as  there  is 
none  among  earthly  delights  more  noble  than  litera- 
ture, so  there  is  none  so  lasting,  none  gentler,  or 
more  faithful ;  there  is  none  which  accompanies  its 


Finale  427 

possessor  through  the  vicissitudes  of  life  at  so  small 
a  cost  of  effort  or  anxiety.1 

Pardon  me  then,  my  brother,  pardon  me.  I  am 
disposed  to  believe  anything  that  you  say,  but  I  can- 
not accept  your  opinion  in  this  matter.  However 
you  may  describe  me  (and  nothing  is  impossible  to 
the  pen  of  a  learned  and  eloquent  writer),  I  must  still 
endeavour,  if  I  am  a  nullity,  to  become  something; 
if  already  of  some  account,  to  become  a  little  more 
worthy ;  and  if  I  were  really  great,  which  I  am  not, 
I  should  strive,  so  far  as  in  me  lay,  to  become 
greater,  even  the  greatest.  May  I  not  be  allowed 
to  appropriate  the  magnificent  reply  of  that  fierce 
barbarian  who,  when  urged  to  spare  himself  con- 
tinued exertions,  since  he  already  enjoyed  sufficient 
renown,  responded,  "  The  greater  I  am,  the  greater 
shall  be  my  efforts  "  ?  Words  worthy  of  another 
than  a  barbarian  !  They  are  graven  on  my  heart,  and 
the  letter  which  follows  this  a  will  show  you  how  far 
I  am  from  following  your  exhortations  to  idleness. 
Not  satisfied  with  gigantic  enterprises,  for  which  this 
brief  life  of  ours  does  not  suffice,  and  would  not  if 
doubled  in  length,  I  am  always  on  the  alert  for  new 
and  uncalled-for  undertakings, — so  distasteful  to  me  . 
is  sleep  and  dreary  repose.  Do  you  not  know  that 
passage  from  Ecclesiasticus,  "  When  man  has  fin- 
ished his  researches,  he  is  but  at  the  beginning,  and 
when  he  rests,  then  doth  he  labour  "  ?  I  seem  to  1 

1  Cf.  John  of  Salisbury's  Prologue  to  his  Policraticus  for  a  much 
earlier  description  of  the  pure  joys  of  literature. 

2  Presumably  that  which  contained  the  translation  of  Boccaccio's 
story  of  Griselda.     See  above,  pp.  191  sqq. 


428  Petrarch 

myself  to  have  but  begun  ;  whatever  you  and  others 
may  think,  this  is  my  verdict.  If  in  the  mean- 
while the  end,  which  certainly  cannot  be  far  off, 
should  come,  I  would  that  it  might  find  me  still 
young.  But  as  I  cannot,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
hope  for  that,  I  desire  that  death  find  me  reading 
and  writing,1  or,  if  it  please  Christ,  praying  and  in 
tears. 

Farewell,  and  remember  me.  May  you  be  happy 
and  persevere  manfully. 

PADUA,  April  28  (1373). 

1  A  letter  from  a  contemporary,  Manzini  de  la  Motta  (July  I,  1388), 
thus  describes  Petrarch's  end:  "Francesco  Petrarca,  the  mirror  of 
our  century,  after  completing  a  vast  array  of  volumes,  on  reaching 
his  seventy-first  year,  closed  his  last  day  in  his  library.  He  was 
found  leaning  over  a  book  as  if  sleeping,  so  that  his  death  was  not  at 
first  suspected  by  his  household." — Quoted  by  Fracassetti,  Let.  delle 
Cose  Fant.y  vol.  ii.,  p.  348. 


1 


* 


INDEX 


Abelard,  19  n.,  152 
sEneid,   allegorical    significance 
of,  as  viewed  by  Petrarch,  233 

m> 

Africa,  Petrarch's  epic,  23,  274 
sq.  /  first  conceived,  70  ;  sub- 
mitted and  dedicated  to  Robert 
of  Naples,  72  ;  work  resumed 
upon,  74  and  n. 

"  Age  of  despots,"  107,  332 

Agrippa,  Marcus,  303 

Aix-la-Chapelle,  300  sq. 

Allegorical  significance  of  the 
sEneid,  233  sqq. 

Allegory,  Petrarch's  mediaeval 
conceptions  of,  233  sq.,  261  sq. 

Ancient  views  of  life,  227 

Ancisa,  65 

Annotations,  Petrarch's,  29,  33 

Anthony,  St.,  318 

Antidotes  for  Good  and  Evil  For- 
tune, 22  ;  dedicated  to  Azzo 
di  Correggio,  1 10 

Antiquity,  Petrarch's  love  for, 
64 

Archia,  Pro, Petrarch's  discovery 

of,  345 

Ardennes,  Forest  of,  305 

Arezzo,  61,  138  and  n. 

Aristotelians,  Petrarch  attacks, 
39  sq. 

Aristotle,  Ethics  of,  35,  40;  au- 
thority of,  in  Middle  Ages,  37 
sq.;  works  of,  brought  to  West- 
ern Europe,  38  ;  Petrarch's 
opinion  of,  37  sqq.,  219  sq., 
237  ;  on  origin  of  poetry,  262 

Arno,  138 

Arnold,    Matthew,   his  view  of 


logic  and  literature,  5  sqq.  ; 
of  fame,  406 

Arqua,  128 

Astrologers,  42  sq. 

Augustine,  St.,  317,  321  sq.;  in- 
terlocutor in  Petrarch's  Secret, 
18,  93  sqq.,  404  sqq.;  influence 
of  his  teaching,  92  and  n. ; 
Petrarch's  spiritual  guide,  92, 
280  sq.;  his  opinion  of  Plato 
quoted,  282 

Augustus,  Caesar,  59,  321 

Autobiography,  Petrarch's,  65 
sqq.,  76 

Autograph-mongers,  52 

Averroes,  212,  -2.14  sqq.,  383 

Averroists,  Petrarch's  rencontre 
with,  211  sqq.,  214  sqq.,  215  n. 

Avignon,  79  sq.;  seat  of  papal 
court,  65,  85  sqq.;  Petrarch's 
removal  to,  65  ;  his  dislike  of, 
69  ;  description  of,  86  sq.;  re- 
moval from,  119 

Azzo  di  Correggio,  83,  107  sqq., 
no 

Babylonish    Captivity,    65     sq., 

85  J?. 
Basle  edition  of  Petrarch's  works, 

iv.,  21  n.,  155 
Benedict,  St.,  393 
Benefices,  83  sq.,  no  sq. 
Bergamo,     goldsmith     of,     169 

sqq.;    Petrarch's  visit  t6,   173 

sqq. 
Best  Form  of  Government,  The, 

Petrarch's,  127 
Boccaccio,   Giovanni,   Petrarch's 

first   meeting   with,    115,   189 


429 


430 


Index 


Boccaccio  (Continued} 

sq.;  Petrarch's  estimate  of, 
206  sqq.  ;  his  letters  to  Pe- 
trarch, 158*  his  library,  394 
sq.  ;  his  complaints,  395  sq.; 
visits  Petrarch  at  Venice,  287, 
n.  3  ;  embassy  of,  to  Avignon, 
320  ;  burns  his  Italian  verses, 
199  sqq.  ;  forewarned  of  ap- 
proaching death,  387  sqq.  ; 
bidden  to  renounce  literature, 
388  sqq.;  would  persuade  Pe- 
trarch to  give  up  work,  417 
sqq.;  possible  author  of  letter 
from  shade  of  Homer,  259  n. 

Boethius,  321,  322  and  notes 
i,  2 

Bologna,  66  ;  Petrarch  studies  at, 
8 1  ;  one  student  of  Homer  at, 

259 
Bologna,    Giovanni    Andrea   di, 

279  n. ;  ignorance  of,  rebuked, 

279  sqq.,  287,  n.  I 
Books,  copying  of,  in  the  Middle 

Ages,,  26  sqq. 
Bryce,  James,  334 
Burckhardt    defines   task  of  the 

Humanists,  8 

Canzoniere,  Petrarch's,  editions 
of,  23  sq.;  as  an  expression 
of  Petrarch's  thought,  15  sq., 
231.  See  also  Sonnets 

Capitol,  the,  Petrarch's  address 
upon,  105  sq. 

Capra,  Henry,  172 

Carducci  ranks  Petrarch  with 
Erasmus  and  Voltaire,  3 

Carpentras,  Petrarch's  schooling 
at,  66,  80  sq. 

Carrara,  Giacomo  of,  75  and  n., 
114  ;  invites  Petrarch  to  Padua, 

74*?. 

Cato,  135 

Charles  IV.,  Emperor,  his  letter 
to  Petrarch,  158  ;  campaign 
of,  in  Italy,  363,  364  and  n. ; 
visits  Italy,  369  ;  retreat  from 
Italy,  376  sq.;  attitude  of, 


toward  Rienzo,  337  ;  his  rela- 
tions with  Petrarch,  125,  376, 
377  n.;  invites  Petrarch  to 
Prague,  386  ;  Petrarch's  letter 
to,  urging  him  to  hasten  to 
Italy,  361  sq.;  Petrarch's  atti- 
tude toward,  358  ;  Petrarch 
accompanies  him  beyond  Pia- 
cenza,  375.  See  also  Emperor 

Charles  the  Great,  300 

Children  of  Petrarch,  62  n. 

Cicero,  Petrarch's  appreciation 
of,  229  sqq.,  232  ;  Petrarch's 
views  concerning  character  of, 
147,  239  sqq.,  244  sqq.,  249 
sqq.;  concerning  works  of,  1 35, 
137,  141,  244,  247,  249  sqq., 
282  ;  influence  of,  on  Petrarch, 
50,  141,  231,  330  ;  letters  from 
Petrarch  to,  239  sqq.,  249  sqq.  ; 
Petrarch  discovers  a  portion  of 
letters  of,  in,  230  n.,  239  n.; 
copies  a  MS.  of,  276  sqq.;  de- 
fends from  supposed  attack  of 
Sidonius,  141  sqq.;  lost  works 
of,  251  ;  Old  Age  of,  421 

Classics,  copies  of,  not  uncom- 
mon in  thirteenth  century,  25  ; 
neglect  of,  in  Middle  Ages,  25 
sq. ,  228  ;  Petrarch's  apprecia- 
tion of,  228  sqq. 

Coins,  Roman,  presented  to  the 
Emperor  by  Petrarch,  371  sq. 

Cologne,  Petrarch's  visit  to,  301 
sqq.;  literary  spirits  in,  302  ; 
cathedral  of,  304 

Colonna,  see  Colonnesi 

Colonnesi,  patrons  of  Petrarch, 
67  ;  Giacomo  Colonna  be- 
friends Petrarch,  67,  84  ;  takes 
him  to  Gascony,  68,  85  ;  Pe- 
trarch's premonition  of  death 
of,  ^sqq.;  Giovanni  Colonna, 
Cardinal,  68,  IQsq.;  Stephano 
Colonna,  69 

Coluccio  Salutati,  letters  of,  to 
Petrarch.  158 

Commensal  chaplain,  Petrarch's 
position  as,  68,  n.  3 


Index 


Confessions,  Petrarch's,  18,  93 

Confessions,  of  Augustine,  316  sq. 

Convennevole,  80  sq.,  103 

Copyists,  151  ;  faithlessness  of, 
27  sq.;  scarcity  of,  275  sq. 

Coronation  of  Petrarch  as  poet, 
101  sqq.,  105  ;  importance  of, 
106  sq.;  origin  of  custom,  103 
sq. 

Correggio,  family  of,  73  ;  Azzo 
di,  83,  107  sqq.;  Petrarch's 
friendship  for,  no 

Correspondence,  obstacles  in  way 
of,  in  Middle  Ages,  5 1  sqq. 

Correspondence,  Petrarch's,  di- 
visions of,  153.  See  also 
Letters 

Critic,  Petrarch  recognised  as  a, 
166 

Critical  editions  of  classics,  ab- 
sence of,  in  fourteenth  cent- 
ury, 24  sq. 

Criticism,  want  of,  in  Middle 
Ages,  35  sq. 

Culex,  201 

Dante,  friend  of  Petracco^iSi ; 
political  views  of,  333  sq.  ; 
attitude  toward  Rome,  98' 
sq.  ;  on  result  of  personal  ac- 
quaintance, 411  n.  ;  on  alle- 
gory, 234  ;  Petrarch  disclaims 
all  jealousy  of,  178  sqq.  ;  eu- 
logises, 181  sqq.;  Petrarch's 
estimate  of,  iv-fsqq.,  203 

Death,  Petrarch's,  128,  428  n. 

Decameron,  191  sq. 

Declamations  of  Seneca,  188 

Defensor  Pads,  334 

Despots,  Petrarch's  relations 
with,  107,  iigsqq.  ;  as  patrons 
of  Ihe  Humanists,  107,  360  sq. 

Dialectic,  insufficiency  of,  5  ;  Pe- 
trarch's attitude  toward,  217, 
221  sqq. 

Dialecticians,  2IO,  217  sqq.,  414 

Diogenes,  220 

Dionisio  da  Borgo  San  Sepolcro, 
307  n. 


Diplomatic  missions  of  Petrarch, 


Disease  of  writing,  164  sqq. 
Display,  Petrarch  deprecates,  61 
Divine  Comedy,    The,   175  sqq., 

182  sqq.     See  also  Dante 
Doctors   fall    to  writing  verses, 

166 
Dreams,  Petrarch's  view  of,  43 

sqq. 
Dress,  Petrarch's  love  of,  78  sq.; 

indecent,   of  certain  Italians, 

425 

Eclogues  of  Petrarch,  266,  268 
Editing  of  Petrarch's  letters,  155 

sq.     See  also  Letters 
Emperor,    Petrarch's     audience 

with,  370   sqq.  ;  viewed   as  a 

patron  of  literature,    360  sq. 

See  also  Empire,  and  Charles 

IV. 
Empire,  the,  Petrarch's  concep- 

tion of,  99,  333  sq.,  350  sqq., 

353  and  n.     See  also  Rome 
Ennius,  274,  421 
Epicurus,  137 
EpistolcB,  de  Rebus  Familiaribus  , 

153  ;  de  Rebus  Senilibus,  154  ; 

sine     Titulo,      66     n.,     154; 

Varice,  153  sq.     See  also  Let- 

ters 
Erasmus,  letters  of,  55  ;  ranked 

with  Petrarch,  3 
Etymologies,  mediaeval,  35  sq. 
Etymologies    of   Isidore   of    Se- 

ville, 36,  263 
Eye-glasses,  60  and  n. 

Fame,  impossibility  of  acquiring, 

during  one's  lifetime,  409  sqq.; 

Petrarch's  longing  for,  18,  255, 

403  sqq. 
"  Fantastic,"  applied  to  Rienzo, 

337,  n.  i 
Father,  a,  upbraids  Petrarch  for 

misleading  his  son,  164  sq. 
Finibus,  De,  Cicero's,  221 


432 


Index 


Florentines,  Petrarch's  estimate 
of,  1 16  sq. ;  Dante's  view  of, 
117,  n.  2  ;  offer  Petrarch  chair 
in  their  university,  115  ;  admir- 
ers of  Petrarch  among,  49  ; 
students  of  Homer  among, 

259 
Fountain  of  the  Sorgue,  69,  265, 

324,  342 

Fracassetti,  Giuseppe,  iv.,  155 
France,  Petrarch's  visits  to,  68, 

125  sq.,  420 
Francesca,  Petrarch's   daughter, 

62,  n. 
Francesco,  Petrarch's  grandson, 

62,  n. 
Frederick  II.,  his  opinion  of  the 

Italians,  116 
French  popes,  85  sq. 

Gaspary,  17 

German  emperors  in  Italy,  333 

Germany,  Petrarch  visits,  68,  299 
sq. 

Ghent,  300 

Gherardo,  Petrarch's  brother,  78 
sq.  ;  his  religious  admonitions, 
396  sqq. ;  letter  to,  on  the 
nature  of  poetry,  261  sqq. 

Ghibelline  views,  333 

Giovanni  Andrea  di  Bologna, 
279  sqq.,  287,  n.  I 

Giovanni,  Petrarch's  son,  62  n., 
395  n. 

Goldsmith  of  Bergamo,  169  sqq. 

Grammarian  of  Vicenza,  243  sqq. 

Grandes  compagnies,  126,  331, 
n.  3 

Greater  Greece,  299 

Greek  literature,  forgotten  in 
Middle  Ages,  5  ;  Petrarch's 
slight  knowledge  of,  34  sq., 
237,  253 

Greek  studies  in  Petrarch's  day, 
253,  n.  3 

Greeks.  Petrarch  asserts  inferior- 
ity of,  to  Latins,  299  sq. 

Gregory  the  Great,  393 ;  con- 
demns literature,  381 


Griselda,    story    of,    191    sqq. ; 

effects  of  the  tale,  195  sqq. 
Guglielmo  di   Pastrengo,  letters 

of,  to  Petrarch,  158 

Hsemus,  Mount,  308 
Hannibal,  314,  321,  367 
Hellenic   influences    in   modern 

education,  237 
Henry  VII.,  368 
History,  Petrarch's  fondness  for, 

64 
Holy   Land,   Petrarch  describes 

the  journey  to,  297  sq. 
Holy  Roman    Empire,  99,    333 

•*?••>  35OS9#'j  353  and  n.     See 

also  Rome 
Homer,    letter    to,     253    sqq  ; 

Latin  translation  of,  253  sq.  ; 

imitated   by  Virgil,   256   sqq., 

293 ;  students  of,   in   Italy  in 

fourteenth  century,  259  sq. 
Humanism,  origin  of,  7  sq. ,  227  ; 

beneficence   of,    8 ;    furthered 

by  Petrarch,  238  sq.,  278  sqq. 
Humanistic   conditions,  general, 

in    fourteenth    century,    242, 

250  sqq.,   259  sq.,  275  sq.,  279 

sqq.,  287  sqq. 
Humanists,  means  of  support  of, 

33 

Ideals,  conflict  of,  in  Petrarch's 
mind,  91  sqq.,  381  sqq. 

Illegitimate  children  of  Petrarch, 
62  n. 

Innocent  VI.,  119 

Isidore  of  Seville,  36,  263 

Isocrates,  132  and  n. 

Itinerarium  Syriacum,  297  sq. 

Italian  language,  Petrarch's  ^pin- 
ion of,  177  sq.,  188,  197  sqq., 
207  sq.  ;  Petrarch's  reasons  for 
giving  up  writing  in,  183,  185 
sqq.,  207  sq. 

Italian  prose,  none  from  Pe- 
trarch's pen,  50  sq. 

Italian  verses  of  Petrarch,  12 
sqq.,  15  sq.,  79 


Index 


433 


Italy,  disorder  in,  331  sq.,  385; 
Petrarch's  love  for,  299 

Jacques  de  Vitry,  93  and  n. 

Jerome,  264,  272,  392 

John,     King    of    France,     125, 

420 
John    the  Baptist,  feast  of,  301 

sqq. 
John  of  Salisbury,  223,  n.,  228, 

427,  n. 
Journeys,  frequency  of  Petrarch's, 

84.  See  also  Travels 
Jubilee  of  1350,  114  sq. 
Julius  Csesar,  352 

"Laelius,"  68,  n.  2,  158 

Lapo  da  Castiglionchio,  letter  to, 
275  sqq. 

Latin  literature,  renewed  interest 
in,  4  sq,;  not  unknown  in 
Middle  Ages,  228  ;  as  agency  in 
transition  to  modern  times,  7 

Latin  works  of  Petrarch,  21  sqq. , 
24  ;  editions  of,  23  ;  well-nigh 
forgotten,  14  sq. 

Laura,  61  sq.  and  n.,  87  sqq.,  94, 
130  n.,  315  and  n. ;  want  of 
knowledge  of,  90  and  n.  2  ; 
death  of,  88  ;  genuineness  of 
Petrarch's  love  for,  89  sqq. 

Laurel  crown,  the,  Petrarch's 
desire  for,  100  sq.;  his  praise 
of,  106  ;  invitations  to  receive, 
70  sq.,  100  sqq.;  offered  by 
King  Robert,  72  ;  received  at 
Rome,  73,  105  sq. 

Law,  Petrarch's  study  of,  66,  81  ; 
his  attitude  toward,  67,  82  ; 
his  use  of,  82  sq. 

Lawyers  turn  to  writing  verses, 
166  ;  conceit  of,  414 

Letters,  Petrarch's,  character  of, 
50,  55;  influence  of,  238  sq ; 
number  of,  151  and  n.;  style  of, 
134  sqq.,  144  sqq.,  230  sq.  ; 
editing  of,  131,  133,  134  sq., 
140^.,  146^.,  150  sqq.,  155 
sqq.,  242  ;  classes  of,  153  sq.; 


to  be  kept  secret,  136  ;  destined 
for  publication,  151  sq.;  often 
lost,  52  sq. ;  opened  on  the 
way,  53  ;  to  be  read  with 
attention,  51 

"Letters  to  Dead  Authors," 
Petrarch's,  147,  239  sqq.,  243, 
244^.,  248  sq.,  253 

Letters  of  Familiar  Internkrse, 

145,  153.  155  sq. 

Letters  of  Old  Age,  126,  154  sq. 

Letters  to  Petrarch,  157  sq. 

Letter  to  Posterity,  59  sqq.;  im- 
portance of,  76 

Letter-writing  128,  140 ;  Pe- 
trarch's view  of,  139  sq.,  148  ; 
he  resolves  to  desist  from,  53 
sqq. 

Library,  Petrarch's,  26  sqq.; 
contents  of,  34  sq.;  fate  of, 
32  sq.;  pledged  to  Venice, 
126,  287,  n.  3 

Liege,  300 

Life  of  Solitude,  The,  Petrarch's, 
69,  373  sq. 

Life,  human,  no  longer  in  ancient 
times,  421  sq. 

Literature,  not  inimical  to  relig- 
ion, 384^.,  390  sqq. 

Lives  of  Famous  Men,  Petrarch's, 
370  sq. 

Livy,  Petrarch's  appreciation  of, 
236 

Logic,  Petrarch's  attitude  toward, 
221  sqq. 

Logicians,  Petrarch's  answer  to, 
217  sqq. 

Love,  secular  and  monastic  con- 
ceptions of,  contrasted,  92, 
96  sq. ;  Petrarch's  discussion 
and  defence  of,  91  sqq.,  94 sqq. 

Lucan,  201 

Ludovico,  see  "  Socrates  " 

Luther,  47 

Lyons,  305  sq. 

Malaucene,  310,  320 

Mankind,  waywardness  of,  398  jy. 

Marsiglio  of  Padua,  47,  334 


434 


Index 


Mediaeval  conception  of  life 
contrasted  with  that  of  Pe- 
trarch, 18,  227 

Mediaeval  literature,  nature  of, 
5  sqq. 

Mediaeval  natural  science,  Pe- 
trarch's attitude  toward,  41 

Mediaeval  scholarship,  5  sq. 

Medieval  traits  of  Petrarch, 
47  sq. 

Messengers,  want  of,  52 

Metamorphoses  of  Ovid,  302 

Milan,  Petrarch's  residence  at, 
1 20  sq.  See  also  Visconti 

Miscellaneous  Letters  of  Pe- 
trarch, 153,  155 

Monastic  ideals,  379  sqq. 

Monasticism,  383  sqq. 

Montpellier,  66 

Mussato,  103 

Name,  Petrarch  changes  his,  77 

Naples,  Petrarch  visits,  71  sq., 
in  ;  condition  of,  in 

Nature,  Petrarch's  love  of,  297 
sq. 

Nelli,  Francesco,  154,  157  sq., 
424  n. 

Nolhac,  Pierre  de,  iv.,  vii.  ;  re- 
constructs catalogue  of  Pe- 
trarch's books,  32  sqq. 

Orders,  Petrarch  takes,  83 
OtioReligiosorum,  De,  Petrarch's, 
384  n. 

Padua,  Petrarch's  residence  in, 
75 

Paganism,  tendency  toward,  of 
Humanists,  381 

Pagan  writers,  propriety  of  read- 
ing, 381  sqq. 

Papal  secretaryship  avoided  by 
Petrarch,  118 

Parents,  Petrarch's,  60 

Paris,  68,  300  ;  University  of,  70 

Parma,  108  sq. ;  Petrarch's  resi- 
dence in,  73,  112  sq. 

Patrimony,  Petrarch's  loss  of,  83 


Patriotism  of  Petrarch,  236,  330 

Pavia,  description  of,  320  sqq. 

Penitential  Psalms,  Petrarch's, 
383 

Penmanship  in  fourteenth  cent- 
ury, 151  and  n.  See  also 
Copyists 

Pergamum,  169  sq. 

Peter  of  Sienna,  messages  of,  to 
Boccaccio,  387  sqq. 

Peter  Lombard,  92,  n. 

Petracco,  Petrarch's  father,  char- 
acter of,  77  sq.;  exiled,  60, 
77  ;  friend  of  Dante,  77,  181  ; 
name  changed  by  Petrarch,  77 

Petrarch,  Francesco,  cosmopoli- 
tan representative  of  the  Re- 
naissance, 4  ;  why  little  known 
except  as  poet,  3,  9  sqq.  ;  ori- 
gin and  birth  of,  59,  61,  137  ; 
changes  his  name,  77  ;  bodily 
and  mental  characteristics,  60, 
63,  69,  249  n.  ;  moral  decline 
of,  146  sq.  ;  moral  progress  of, 
314  jy.  /  humour  of,  281,  n.  ; 
travels  of,  137,  295  sqq.  ;  ma- 
terials for  life  of,  14  sq.  ;  for- 
eign recognition  of,  165  sq.  ; 
the  father  of  humanism,  227 
sqq.  ;  his  style,  64,  248  n.  ;  in- 
fluenced by  Seneca,  230  ;  more 
deeply  by  Cicero,  231  ;  as  a 
poet,  231  sqq.  ;  patriotism  of, 
236,  330 ;  his  method  of  study, 
238;  understanding  of  literary 
art,  289  sqq. 

Philip,  Bishop  of  Cavaillon,  69 

Philologist,  Petrarch  as  a,  4,  20 

Pierre  Dubois,  46 

Pilatus,  Leo,  and  his  version  of 
Homer,  253,  n.  5,  254,  n.  2 

Pisa,  65,  138 

Plagiarism,  183  and  n. 

Plague  of  1348,  126,  147 

Plato,  281  sq.,  376 

Pliny's  letters  unknown  to  Pe- 
trarch, 152  n. 

Poetry,  Petrarch's  conception 
of,  19,  231  sqq. ;  his  defence 


Index 


435 


Poetry  (Continued) 

of,  105  ;  profaned  by  the  mul- 
titude, 166  sqq.,  342  sq.  ;  me- 
diaeval, 19  and  n.  3 

Policraticus  of  John  of  Salisbury, 
427  n. 

Political  activity,  Petrarch's, 
329  sq. 

Political  opinions  of  Petrarch, 
327  sqq.,  3SOS??.,  358  sqq. 

Popes,  court  of,  at  Avignon,  86 

Popularity  of  Petrarch,  48 

Portraits  of  Petrarch,  vii.  sq., 
60  n. 

Prague,  Petrarch's  visit  to,  124 
sq.,  420 

Preface  to  Letters  of  Familiar 
Intercourse,  130  sqq. 

Priest,  Petrarch  not  a,  83  and  n. 

Pro  Archia,  Petrarch's  discovery 
of,  345 

Psychological  analysis,  Petrarch's 
love  of,  17 

Public  library,  Petrarch  hopes  to 
found  a,  29  sqq. 

Quintilian,  143  sq.,  180  and  n., 
218 

Ravenna,  the  old  man  of,  203 
and  n.  ;  a  youth  of,  150,  287 
sqq. 

Reformers,  why  quickly  forgot- 
ten, 10  ;  qualities  of,  46  sqq. 

Religion  not  inimical  to  litera- 
ture, 384  sqq. 

Religious  views  of  Petrarch,  312 
sqq. ,  382  sq. ,  401  sqq. 

Remediis  Utriusque  Fortunes, 
De,  21  sq.,  238 

Renaissance,  character  of,  4  sq.  ; 
obstacles  to,  24  sq. 

Repose,  Petrarch's  dislike  of, 
162  sqq. 

Republica  optime  administranda, 
De,  of  Petrarch,  330  n. 

Rienzo,  Cola  di,  335  sqq. ; 
achievements  of,  349,  356, 
359 ;  popular  interest  in,  338 


sqq.;  believed  to  be  a  poet, 
345  sqq.  ;  trial  of,  348  sqq.  ; 
sources  for  life  of,  337,  n. 
4  ;  letter  of,  to  Petrarch,  158  ; 
Petrarch's  sympathy  for,  and 
relations  with,  112,  335  sq., 
338  sqq.,  343  sqq. 

Robert,  King  of  Naples,  71  sq., 
IO2  sq.,  105,  308  n.,  412  sq. 

Roman  Empire,  at  Rome,  350 
sqq.;  endless,  353  and  n.  See 
also  Empire 

Roman  literature,  see  Latin 

Roman  people,  Petrarch's  letter 
to,  348  sqq. 

Rome,  68,  70,  98  sqq.,  251  sq., 
260 ;  divine  origin  and  su- 
premacy of,  98  sq.,  330,  350 
sqq.  ;  constitution  for,  118  ; 
genius  of,  366  sqq. 

Sade,  De,  90  n. 
Sanctis,  De,  15 
Scholarship,  Petrarch's,  20,  236 

sqq. 
Schoolmen,    Petrarch's    neglect 

of,  37 
Scientific   investigation,   diverse 

effects  of,  on  religious  beliefs, 

382 

Scipio,  70,  367 
Seclusion,    Petrarch's    love    of, 

297,  373  sq. 
Secret,    Petrarch's,    18,    93,  404 

sqq. 

Secular  conceptions  of  life  dis- 
place theological,  7 
Self-consciousness  of  Petrarch,  17 
Selva  Piana,  74 
Seneca,  style  of,   50,   137,   141, 

147,    230,    281  ;    his   Octama, 

147  and  n.  4. 

Seneca,  the  Rhetor,  188  n. 
Sicilian  poetry,  132 
Sidonius  Apollinaris,  141  sqq. 
Silius     Italicus,     his      metrical 

abridgment  of  the  Iliad,  254, 

n.  I 
"Simonides,"  see  Nelli 


436 


Index 


"  Socrates,"  68,  n.  2,  130,  n.  i, 

134,  152,  158 
Solitude,  Petrarch's  love  of,  297, 

373  sq. 
Solitude,  TheLifeof,Peira.Tctis, 

373  sq. 
Sonnets,  Petrarch's,   12  sqq.,  15 

sq.     See  Italian  language 
Sorgue,    Fountain   of,    69,   265, 

324.  342 

Spectacles,  60  and  n. 
Statius,  104 

Stephen  of  Bourbon,  93  and  n. 
Style,    Petrarch's,    64,    230  sq., 

248  n. 
Suiipsius  et  A  liorum  Ignorantia, 

De,  Petrarch's,  215,  n.  3. 
Superstition,  Petrarch's  freedom 

from,  43  sqq. 

Theology,  poetical  elements  in, 

261 

Three  Kings,  the,  304 
Ticino,  321,  323  sq. 
Ticinum,  322 
Travels  of     Petrarch,   97,    295 

sqq. 
Trials    of  a  man  of  letters  in 

fourteenth  century,  162  sqq. 
Trionfi,  Petrarch's,  177 
True  Wisdom,  Petrarch's,  383 
Tuscany,  138 

Universities    attended    by    Pe- 
trarch, 66,  67  and  n. 
Urban  V.,  65  and  n.  2,  66 


Varro,  148 

Vaucluse,  69,  100,  331 

Venice,  124,  126  sq.,  420;  Pe- 
trarch offers  his  library  to,  29 
sqq.  ;  Petrarch's  house  in,  287, 
n.  3 

Ventoux,  Mt.,  ascent  of,  307 
sqq.  j  view  from,  313  sq.,  316 

Vicenza,  grammarian  of,  Pe- 
trarch's discussion  with,  243 
sqq. 

Vincent  of  Beauvais,  5 

Virgil,  148,  411  sq. ;  as  inter- 
preted by  Petrarch,  231  sqq., 
234  sqq.  ;  his  imitation  of 
Homer,  256  sqq.,  293  ;  re- 
garded as  a  magician,  347  ; 
Petrarch's  copy  of,  88 

Visconti,  Petrarch's  relations 
with,  120  sq. ;  estimate  of, 
122  sq.  ;  Bishop  Giovanni,  119 
sq.,  122  ;  Galeazzo,  123  sq., 
324  ;  Gian  Galeazzo,  125  ;  Lu- 
chino,  119 

Voigt  defines  Petrarch's  historic 
greatness,  8  sq. 

Voltaire,  48 ;  Petrarch  ranked 
with,  3,  10  sq. 

Vulgari  Eloquio,  De,  Dante's, 
178 

Work,  Petrarch's  ardour  for,  162 
sqq.,  417  sqq.i  ^  sqq. 

Writing,  passion  for,  contagious, 
164  sq. 


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